


Harry Potter and the Aftermath

by RyanJenkins



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Humor, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:40:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 125,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26895349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyanJenkins/pseuds/RyanJenkins
Summary: Where were the Americans when Lord Voldemort was terrorizing Britain? Just after the Battle of Hogwarts, a young American Wizard is sent over to find out what has happened, and shares the immediate aftermath of Voldemort's defeat with all the characters readers know so well. Told with the excitement, action, and humor of the early Potter stories, this tale was written before J. K. Rowling published any of her later works -- and reveals a far more plausible version of the American Wizarding World. Carefully maintaining the canon of the original novels, the further adventures of Harry and his friends explore some other unanswered questions as well -- for instance, why don't Wizards have computers?
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. The Department of Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In mid-May, 1998, Ryan Jenkins, a young American Auror, sets out for the U.K. and remembers the chaotic events in Washington that propelled him on this unexpected journey.

I really had no idea what I was going to find when I got to England.

That’s partly because I’d never been there, but mainly because no one at the United States Department of Magic had any idea either, which should be one good indication of the catastrophic disarray the Department was struggling with at the time. For another, the five remaining Trans-Atlantic Portkeys in the Department’s locker (a hairbrush, a serving spoon, two clothes pins and a cassette tape labeled “Barry Manilow’s Greatest Hits”) were suspect and could not be used. Without a TAPKey, I had to travel as a Muggle. This wasn’t as much of a problem for me as it might have been for others; I came from a Muggle family and had traveled on airplanes several times as a boy, before I found out I was a Wizard. But the trip wasn’t a whole lot of fun, either.

When I got to Dulles International, I was the perfect college student, wearing jeans, a vest, and cross-trainers. I had my backpack, a rather large rollie-case, and in my head, reams and reams of memorized contingency instructions, most of which I hoped I would never need. My wand was concealed in the sleeve of my shirt with a simple sticky-charm, which would let me use it, if necessary, without exposing it to view. The Interim Secretary of Magic had personally supervised the concealment spells and assured me that they would prevent the wand (and several other things) from being noticed, and anything from setting off any metal detectors. I hoped very hard that he was right.

At the British Airways counter, I waited in line behind a family with three small children who were driving their parents nuts by demanding toys and things that had been carefully packed away, and a tall man wearing a black cowboy hat, a fleece-lined leather coat, and cowboy boots of some grey-green leather I didn’t recognize. The family got their tickets fixed up, and their luggage checked (“No, honey, it's in the suitcase, and the suitcase has to go now, we’ll all go get a nice juice in just a moment…”) after an amazingly long time. The tall guy had grizzled grey hair, a long square chin, and sounded like a Texan when he spoke. He soothed the frazzled attendant and had his bag checked and his ticket in hand with smooth efficiency. As he turned away, his boot collided with my rollie-case.

“Oops! Sorry, son!” He gave me a brief smile, which somehow didn’t reach his pale grey eyes. I almost asked him what his boots were made of, but thought better of it. Least said, soonest mended. I had over-riding orders not, on any account, to draw attention to myself. He strode away toward the gates and I took my turn at the counter. I remembered wearing cowboy boots once in a school play. They were stiff and awkward – I don’t even want to remember what the pointy shape did to my toes! – and really hard to put on. But he had the real thing, and I admired them, regardless of what they skinned to make 'em. I also admired his assured, experienced, confident manner. I could use some of that where I was going.

Security, at least, was no problem; I simply walked straight through the gate looking at my ticket. On the plane, though, when I found seat 38-B, I used some bad language under my breath, thinking of Loretta Peebles, the fat secretary in Magical Transportation. She never stopped talking except to eat a piece of chocolate, and had assured me repeatedly that she knew just how to handle flight reservations. I made a solemn vow that if I ever had to endure this painfully slow method of travel again, I would book the ticket myself.

A middle seat in a group of three is bad enough, but the window seat was overflowing with a very fat older woman wearing way too much makeup, and the aisle seat was taken by a skinny balding man with a pinched face, who seemed to disapprove of the world in general, and looked annoyed at me in particular. Once in my seat, I discovered that he smelled like he'd chugged a bottle of Old Spice. The fat lady smelled like a florist’s trash can.

Still, I was not unprepared. I reached up and turned on the air vent, while muttering ‘ _Ozonius Continuum_ ’ under my breath. The smells receded, and I reflected that I’d learned _something_ useful, at any rate, at dear old IWU. Then I pulled a pair of earbuds out of my shirt pocket, screwed them into my ears, settled back and closed my eyes. The earbuds weren’t connected to anything, but they effectively stopped my seatmates in mid-gush and mid-complaint, respectively.

I pretended to pay attention to the safety procedures lecture while actually ignoring it. If the plane got in trouble, I was going to have a whole different list of options, most of which were so terrifying they didn’t bear thinking about. Eventually, we took off, climbing and turning, and headed out over the Atlantic. I closed my eyes again, and thought back over the incredibly crowded and astonishing 72 hours I had just spent.

This was in mid-May 1998, only a couple of weeks after the Big Meltdown. Like everyone else who was still coming to work at the Department, I was trying to pick up the pieces and reassemble the threads of my section, filling in for people who were no longer at their desks – or in a shocking number of cases, no longer alive.

Interim Secretary of Magic Alistair Blackstone was actually a retired Admiral in the U.S. Navy, and up until the dragon dung hit the High Velocity Air Circulation spell, he had held what everyone thought was a mostly ceremonial post as Director of the National Magical Research Administration. They did some theoretical research, studying old scrolls for forgotten spells, developing safety features for incantations used in classrooms, that kind of thing. And as the highest-ranking military Wizard, he also administered the one and only battalion of United States Wizarding Marines, who stood sentry duty at Department buildings, escorted dignitaries, and provided an honor guard for ceremonies.

We all knew Blackstone was personally interviewing and vetting all the remaining departmental personnel, but I had expected him to take a lot longer getting around to me, since I was so new and so very junior. And that morning, I felt sure he wouldn’t send for me, because I’d been given a special job. I was actually in old Nosey’s (former) office, trying to undo the locking spell he’d put on his private file cabinets, when one of the famous Kentucky Cardinals zoomed in through the transom. It landed neatly on the desk lamp, opened its beak, and spoke in the Interim Secretary’s gruff voice:

“Now hear this. Mr. Jenkins! Report to my office at six bells in the forenoon watch – oh, dammit, I mean eleven a.m. Do not discuss this appointment with anyone. And do not – repeat, not! – Apparate. That is all.”

The beautiful scarlet bird cocked its head expectantly, and I dove into my pockets, looking for mealworms. All I had on me were some grubs I’d brought, hoping to get in a little fishing after work, and I wasn’t sure what he would think of those. But he gulped one down immediately, winked, saluted crisply with his right wing, and flew out.

The clocks in the room were still useless, either stopped altogether (at different times) or spinning madly. I glanced at my watch and saw it was 10:40 already. I put down my bellows and clapped the cover on the brazier, smothering the charcoal briquette I’d just gotten up to a nice glowing red. There was no time to let it cool down, so I left it on the desk and put the packets of herbs back in my cloak pockets. Wishing mightily that at least one of the mirrors in the room had been properly cleared of enchantments and scraped clean of paint, so I could check my face for smudges and comb my hair, I went back out in to the anteroom and put my personal seal back on the office door. There was nobody in the corridor, so I took a moment to put my seal on the anteroom door as well. Slipping my wand back into my sleeve, I headed for the stairs.

The tall, cylindrical Department of Magic tower is still one of the most beautiful buildings in Washington, and it’s really a pity that Muggles can’t see it in the reflecting pool – all they see is the thin needle of the Washington Monument, of course. But I could see it in the still waters, as I passed one of the great curved-glass windows, and shook my head once again at the image of the great building with its top three floors reduced to burned and blackened rubble. The smoke had stopped, so it didn’t look quite so much like a great white colonnaded cigar stuck into the ground.

After the U.S. Wizarding Marines had suddenly turned from faultlessly turned out, spit-and-polish manikins usually regarded as part of the furniture, into heavily armed, coldly efficient soldiers and fought their way up to the top floor of the building, killing Secretary Parboil, Admiral (Ret.) Alistair Blackstone had taken over the 52nd floor, the highest level still fit for human habitation. We had all seen the recording of the President in rumpled pajamas, looking worried and harassed, holding the order he had just signed and reading it aloud in a soft hoarse voice, putting Blackstone in full charge while the Department was reorganized. By now, those of us still working had quickly learned to treat the Interim Secretary’s orders as, well, Admiral’s orders.

Climbing the four flights took ten minutes in itself, and the other ten were taken up showing my Pass and Wand at five different sentry stations. The last one was manned by a hard-eyed Marine Lieutenant, who took a long time casting his challenge-spells and minutely examining the results. I was afraid I’d be late, but he finally nodded and pointed his wand at the office door, which vanished. It reappeared behind me as I stepped inside. A large brass bell inscribed “USS SALEM” was hanging from a stand in the corner. All by itself, the clapper suddenly moved. It chimed six times – _dang-dang, dang-dang, dang-dang!_ – and the Interim Secretary looked up from a docket he was studying.

“Ryan Jenkins, sir.”

“Ah. Very good. Sit down, Jenkins.” He was a grey-headed, clean-shaven man with wide shoulders, dressed in a U.S. Navy Admiral’s uniform, except that the tunic was bright red. Muggles, of course, always saw it as the appropriate color, according to the season, the occasion, or what the SOPA was wearing. He nodded toward one of two armchairs in front of his desk, and I sat, hoping I didn’t look too disheveled. “You smell like smoke. I thought the Auror’s office didn’t ignite. What have you been doing?”

“Sorry, sir, I was trying to find out how to unlock the private files in the Chief Auror’s office.” The Interim Secretary’s bushy eyebrows went up, and I hastened to explain. “Captain Mahan put me on it this morning, sir, because I took a Minor in Forensic Magic at I.W.U. I was getting ready to try a particulate-pattern analysis of the spells involved, because we thought smoke particles might be too lightweight to trigger any destructing, encrypting, or confunding components in the privacy spells.”

“Hmph. Reasonable, in theory, but I hope you hadn’t gotten too far.”

“I had just got the charcoal going, sir. I hadn’t burned any dropwort or sensing powder yet.”

“Good! Lefferson tried much the same thing down in Accounting, and just now reported that when he opened the file drawer he was working on, all the expense vouchers for last September had been transfigured into cooked kohlrabi.” The Interim Secretary ran a hand through his thick gray hair, and the gold in his shoulder-boards glittered. “In any case, I've got another job for you. I’ve just been looking through your file. That was a nice piece of work you did on old Nosey.”

I didn’t worry about his scrutiny of my personal records, because I was too surprised at his use of a nickname I had thought was confined to a very few of the most junior Aurors. It must have shown in my face, because the Interim Secretary barked a quick laugh.

“We’ve been learning a lot about what was really going on in this building, and I’ll tell you right now that I don’t propose to trust anyone who didn’t use that name – or something worse! – for former Chief Auror Nostradamus Seward.” He leaned forward and speared me with his hard grey eyes. “Just how did you manage to take him down?”

“It was just luck that I got a chance, sir. But – well, I guess I was ready to try _something_. I’d only been here a couple of months, but I’d found out right away that something was – wrong, I mean _really_ wrong, in the Department, and Seward was deeply involved. Any student in my Auror classes would have been on him in a heartbeat! He—he _smelled_ like black magic. He was thick as thieves with Parboil, and he was getting nastier every day. He’d suddenly pop into your room, acting mysterious and superior, gloating and giving orders like he was a king or something.”

“So I’ve heard. Repeatedly. By that time, they were apparently being told that everything was in the bag, all sewed up, and they were beginning to come out from behind their cover stories. Getting over-confident. That’s what put us on High Alert.”

Being told? The thought leaped at me, but was overshadowed by my growing astonishment at the Interim Secretary’s friendly confidentiality. He was known for giving orders, not explaining, and coming down hard on people who dithered or talked back. I didn’t know what to say, and after a moment he took me off the hook by saying, quietly, “So you had him tagged for a wrong ‘un. That’s good. Now tell me how it went down.”

“Well, that morning, I was at my desk when the surge came – I can’t think of what else to call it – and of course we all felt that sudden wave of terror and release.”

“Yes. Caught me in the head. Better than any laxative potion I ever heard of. Go on.”

It took me a moment to realize the old sea dog wasn't speaking of his mental reaction, but I plunged ahead. “I found out later that Seward had Apparated straight up to Parboil’s office. He was one of the few who could do that. We all poured out into the corridor, asking each other what the hell that could have been, and after a little while I took the opportunity to go to the, uh, head, sir.”

“Mens' room is fine, son. This isn’t a ship, and you’re not in the Navy. Yet, anyway.”

“Yes sir. I was in there when I heard the crack as Seward Apparated back onto our floor, and heard him shouting, ‘Back to work, all of you! NOW!’ I opened the door and looked out, and he had moved down the hall so his back was to me. Jenny Madigan was heading toward the Ladies’ room, and he yelled ‘None of that you!’ And then he – he raised his wand and used the Cruciatis Curse on her, sir.”

“So you confirm that Seward used an Unforgivable Curse on a Department employee?”

“Damned right I do!” The memory of my anger made me forget where I was for a moment, and I added “Sir,” a bit late.

“Then what happened?”

“Jenny screamed, but I had my wand in my hand, sir, and I used Expelliarmus on him.”

“Not Expellio? It saves a syllable.”

“I learned Expelliarmus at school, sir, as a boy, and it just leaped out, I guess. I always thought it was more powerful.”

“Not according to our Testing Bureau. But wait, you wouldn’t have the military version, would you? Maybe you were right.”

“Yes, sir. Anyway, his wand flew out of his hand and he staggered, coming around to face me. He looked horrible. His face was kind of blotchy, all purple and white, kind of green around the mouth, and his eyes were wild. He screamed, more like an animal than a man, and lunged toward me, and that’s when I used the Twisted Snakes on him.”

“The Twisted Snakes? Never heard of it.”

“It’s a Cherokee curse, sir. It makes any rope-like object within reach wrap itself around a person until they’re immobilized.”

“Ah. That explains Sergeant McGillicuddy’s report.” He picked up a paper on his desk and read from it. “ _…Seward’s wand was found sticking, point first, into the acoustic ceiling tile, and he himself was discovered on the floor in the corridor, securely immobilized by the cords from four Venetian blinds, six standard D-plug AC power cords, four eight-foot telephone cords with RJ-11 connectors, five Ethernet cords of various lengths with RJ-45 connectors, six leather belts, two sets of suspenders, two pair nylon stockings, one three-and-a-half foot necklace of amethyst beads, sixteen gold chains of various lengths (for which I have given a receipt to Miss LaWanda Toumbe) and over 30 yards of quarter-inch spun yarn from a braided throw rug, which was continuing to unravel and wrap itself around him._ ”

“Yes sir.”

“And since you cast the spell, that explains why you were the only one in the office whose trousers hadn’t fallen down. Where in the name of Davy Jones’ waterlogged spell book did you learn that?”

“From Jamie Two Eagles Cogburn, sir, he was my roommate for three years at I-WU.”

“An Indian?”

“One of the people of the First Nations, yes, sir.” I suddenly realized I had just corrected Interim Secretary Blackstone, and felt a wave of anxiety pass over me. Just a year out of Auror school, and here I was bandying words with probably the most powerful Wizard in America!

But the Interim Secretary just nodded, thoughtfully. “Can you teach it to me?”

“I think so, sir, but you have to learn the Cherokee pronunciation, and get the rhythm just right. It helps a lot if you know something of the Cherokee language, and especially if you learn a couple of their ceremonial dances.”

Blackstone shook his head, a little ruefully I thought. “I think we’ll pass on that for now. But tell me, why didn’t you use the body-bind curse? Petrificus Totalus?”

“I thought of that, sir, but I was afraid that he might have had some guard-spell or defense against that. I’ve heard that the Marines have a reflecting charm that can make curses rebound on the Wizard who casts them. Everybody knows about Petrificus Totalus, and I figured maybe the Cherokee spell wasn’t very well known and might not be included in the action-decision list in the reflecting spell’s program.”

“Yes. _Kevlarus Reflecticum_. I suppose it isn’t much of a secret since that article appeared in _Popular Enchantments_. Smart. Was there anything else after that?”

“Not really. That’s when you interrupted us, sir.”  
“So I did.”

The first explosion had made the whole building shake, and brought down a shower of dust and the plastic covers from several fluorescent light fixtures. The Interim Secretary’s voice, magically amplified, had echoed in every nook and cranny of the tower.

“NOW HEAR THIS. THE MARINES HAVE LANDED. THIS BUILDING IS UNDER MARTIAL LAW. ANY RESISTANCE TO U.S.WIZARDING MARINE PERSONNEL WILL BE MET WITH FORCE. ANYONE ATTEMPTING TO APPARATE OR CAST ANY SPELL WILL BE ARRESTED. RETURN TO YOUR OFFICES, PLACE YOUR WANDS ON YOUR DESKS, AND WAIT THERE UNTIL YOU CAN BE INTERVIEWED.”

And that’s what most people did. The exceptions were people who fainted, people who suddenly collapsed or died at the moment Undersecretary of Magic Sylvester K. Parboil met his demise, and a few people who tried to run. None of them got very far. They couldn’t Apparate, the elevators weren’t working, and the stairs were full of Wizarding Marines in full battle dress, wands at the ready, some of them carrying M-16(W) assault rifles with Never-Empty magazines full of silver homing bullets.

Interim Secretary Blackstone seemed lost in thought for a few moments. Then he looked at me and actually smiled! I think my mouth fell open, because he chuckled. “Well done, Jenkins! Better done than you could have known, in fact. Now look here.” He was suddenly very serious. “What I’m about to tell you is confidential information. For the present, you will not discuss it except with me, and in the future, you will not discuss it with anyone who has not been authorized to know it by me. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir.” I felt very junior again.

“Most of Parboil’s gang died with him on the top floors, or were found dead later – apparently a very nasty security spell killed them when he went. Do you know what actually happened to him?”

“Uh, not really, sir. There’s been a lot of rumors.”

“No doubt. But my people hold their tongues. The assault group tried to take him alive, but their _Reflecticum_ spells didn’t work – not on Parboil, at close range at least. He knew all about them, of course, and somehow got through with a countercurse. He killed the first three Marines who entered his office with _Avada Kedavra_.”

“Oh God.”

“Or His opposite. The fourth had an M-16(W) on full automatic, and pretty much cut Parboil in half. Removed his face, too.” I felt queasy. Maybe I looked it, but the Interim Secretary took no notice. “When he died, a lot of our people all over the country – his people, I guess I should say, died where they stood, or – transformed. Some of them fell over, went catatonic. Three of those have woken up so far, over at Bethesda Wizarding, and they seem to have no memory at all of anything after a certain point in their lives, usually soon after they joined the Department. Quite a lot were found dead, but except in a few cases, not freshly dead – their bodies were found to be in various advanced states of decomposition, including five, so far, who were simply small piles of dust inside their robes. A smaller number have been found alive and awake, but suddenly many years older, and quite insane. Nosey Seward was the only member of the top group to survive apparently intact. Do you think that Cherokee snake spell had something to do with that?”

“Uh – I don’t know, sir. Maybe it did, though. Jamie told me it was used to ‘keep an enemy safe,’ he said, until you could get around to disposing of him or...”

“—or interrogating him. Or whatever the Cherokees wanted to do to him. Hmmm. Where is this Jamie Two Eagles Cogburn now, do you know?”

“He wanted to go back to his people on the rez – the reservation, sir. He was studying Healing, and after his advanced training up in Salem, he wrote me that he got accepted for a Healing Potions fellowship at the Magical University of Virginia. He may be still there, I’m not sure how long that lasts, sir.”

The Interim Secretary nodded, pointed his wand, and a pen leaped out of its holder and made notes on a pad. “Well, we’ve got Nosey stupefied over at Bethesda, and I hope we can find out what he knows. But something – either Parboil’s security spell or your Cherokee curse, has locked his mouth closed. They’ve got him on a feeding tube. Perhaps your friend can help.”

I don’t know how he did it. He was a friendly, almost fatherly figure, at one moment, and then suddenly he was In Command.

“All right. Jenkins, I like you. One of the first people to die in the battle upstairs –shriveled up into a pile of bones right in front of the assault team – was Undersecretary for Foreign Wizarding Relations Silas Willowmoan, and you are hereby appointed his replacement.”

* * * * * * * * * *


	2. Lord Voldemort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan gets his marching orders, and is briefed on what the Department knows about the situation in Britain.

British Airways Flight 2042 had leveled off at about 40,000 feet, heading NNE on the great circle route to London. A couple of stewardi, who were pleasingly slim, spoke with charming British accents, and did not wear too much makeup, came down the aisle with the beverage cart. When they got to our row I pretended to wake up, folded down my tray-table, stretched a few inches (and then had to apologize on both sides) and ordered two bourbon-and-gingers, with a sliver of lime for each. Getting my wallet out of my back pocket was almost as much trouble as putting on those damn cowboy boots had been. Then I discovered that they weren’t taking cash, so I had to use the credit card I’d borrowed from my father. He’d sent it last night by Eagle Express – there hadn’t been time to get me one through a Muggle bank, and my Gringotts Wizarding Bank card would have been useless, even if it had been visible to the stewardess.

Each of those little plastic bottles is a double, two shots. I mixed my first one, opened one of the little packets of trail mix (had to use my teeth) and wondered why they didn’t call it ‘contrail mix’ on airplanes. Pretending to adjust my music, I settled back, munching and sipping, and worked hard, without making much progress, on convincing myself that I really was an international envoy, an international spy, and the United States Undersecretary for Foreign Wizarding Relations, all traveling incognito in one Economy-class airplane seat.

I remembered again how Interim Secretary Blackstone had dropped that first bomb on me. _Undersecretary?!_ To say I was surprised doesn’t even begin to cover it. There may have been an audible “clunk” as my jaw hit the floor; I don’t know, I wasn’t listening. A corner of Blackstone’s mouth turned up, and he held up his hand.

“Hold it. I know what I’m doing, son. I’m giving you an assignment, and you’re going to need this appointment to make it work.”

“But—!” I sputtered, groping desperately for the best way to start listing all the objections that flooded into my mind, “—but…but…but…”

The Interim Secretary laughed. It was a full, genuine, hearty laugh that crinkled up his eyes. But it didn’t last long, he damped it right away, and held up both hands, palms out. “Sorry! I wasn’t laughing at you. It’s just that you sounded _exactly_ like the crummy old outboard motor my guide uses up in Minnesota, when we go fishing and want to conceal the fact that we’re moving the boat by magic.”

He put his palms down on the desk, pushed, and stood up, fully revealing the wide blue sash around his middle, and the snow-white trousers and shoes below. “I’m not a mind reader, but I’d bet money I know exactly what you’re thinking right now. _Here I am, fresh out of school, no organizational experience, brand new on the job at the Department, where, at the end of my first ten weeks I attacked and disabled the Chief Auror! On top of that, I’ve never been outside the United States except twice to Canada, once to Mexico, and once to the Bahamas. And on top of_ that _, I’ve only been in this room half an hour – how does this batty old fart know he can trust me?_ ” He looked me square in the eyes. “Well? Am I right?”

I looked back at him, wondering how he knew all that. “Yes sir. And I think I can add to that.”

“No doubt you could.” He gave a little nod, as if he’d decided something, and turned away. “How about a cup of coffee?”

It wasn’t really a question, and anyway I like coffee. “Sure. Thanks.”

“How do you take it?”

“No cream, just half a teaspoon – half a packet – of sugar.”

He had moved across to a sideboard, on which sat a grey coffeemaker with USN on its top in big black bold letters. He grabbed two white mugs, similarly emblazoned, and poured. “It’s Navy coffee. Better use the whole packet. Maybe two.” He handed me a mug. “Look, Jenkins, we’ll lay this out for you. Once you know what the job is, if you really don’t think you can hack it, if you really don’t want it, you can say no and go back to your old job. But I don’t think you will. Now, here’s to getting the Department of Magic back on its feet, so I can go back to _my_ old job!”

We raised our mugs to each other, and drank. It was incredibly strong, and tasted like the charred remains of an old suitcase. I coughed. “Wow! Is that fuel for people, or ships?”

“Both.”

A few minutes later, we were seated comfortably in a small conference room, which had been carefully sealed, tyled, and warded. I had a fresh cup of coffee, this time laced with four packets of sugar, which improved the taste a lot; now it was more like old engine oil. We were joined by two more people, Captain Angela Mahan, USWM, who I’d met when she took over the Bureau, resplendent in her bright red uniform with the white piping, now glowing softly and steadily instead of flashing angrily as it had when she had first arrived, and a tall, thin civilian fellow with graying blond hair and a long pointed chin, dressed in deep green robes.

“All right, Jenkins, Captain Mahan you know, and this long drink of water is Geoffrey Smythe-Farrington, who is just about the only British subject in the United States, right at this moment, that I trust. That’s because I’ve known him over thirty years, and also because he’s been over here for almost twenty. Geoff, Ryan Jenkins.”

“Pleased to meet you.” We shook hands, and Smythe-Farrington appraised me with sympathy – or was it pity? “And, I should point out, I haven’t been back to England at all for nearly twelve years. So I’m not here to be a particular fount of knowledge, in respect of our present problem, but just to give a bit of perspective, as it were.”

“Angela, why don’t you summarize the situation?” Blackstone was crisp.

“Yes, sir.” She faced me and smiled, kind of ruefully. “It seems we’ve had a problem for quite some time. We knew about it, but apparently we had no idea how very bad it really was. The root of the problem is – or was – a dark Wizard, a British one, who called himself Lord Voldemort. He first appeared in Britain over thirty years ago, and built up a powerbase that eventually went nationwide.”

“I lived through that,” put in Smythe-Farrington. “I was up in a rural community in the North then – in American terms, rather like being in a farm town in Nebraska, or Iowa – so I saw the effects rather later, and perhaps somewhat less harshly, than people in the major population centers like London. None the more for that, it was bad enough in the Wizarding community. Very bad. People disappeared. Children disappeared. People were robbed and tortured. One never knew whom one could trust; he had spies everywhere, and all sorts of people let their baser natures come out, and set themselves up as petty local tyrants, thinking that they might as well be on the winning side, and the Dark Lord was going to stay forever.”

“This ‘Dark Lord,’” I put in. “Was he as bad as Grindelwald?”

“Worse, actually. You-know-who had absolutely no concept of morality at all. He said, and I quote, ‘there is no good or evil, only power and those too weak to wield it.’” End quotation.

“You-know-who? You mean, uh – Lord Voldemort?”

“Ah – sorry. Habit. Stupid, really, especially now, but there it is. We were all simply terrified to pronounce his name, lest it somehow draw his attention. Didn’t even refer to him indirectly unless we absolutely had to. It just became ingrained in one, second nature and all that. That’s one reason I didn’t mention him to you when we first met, Alistair.” He looked apologetic.

“Water over the dam, Geoff.” The Interim Secretary shook his head. “But the fact remains that here was a Dark Wizard, running a reign of terror. Grindelwald started a whole war, and everyone in the Wizarding world knew of him – but this guy was worse, and we didn’t realize it. We should have known, dammit – and if we didn’t, we should have found out! I remember hearing something about a bad Wizard in Britain, but it just didn’t seem important, somehow.”

Angela took up the thread. “That was partly because his people were deliberately minimizing or blocking the news, but also because it looked like a local phenomenon. Every country has had some Wizards go bad, very much including ours. We’ve handled our criminals, and why shouldn’t we expect the British to handle theirs? During those first eleven years, everything we know indicates that Voldemort was careful not to involve Muggles, and to keep his activities mostly within the United Kingdom. He started infiltrating the Ministry of Magic early on, didn’t he?”

“That he most certainly did,” affirmed the Brit. “All too effectively. Terrified the Wizarding press, controlled all official contact with other countries, and tried to control everything anyone said, even in private. Everybody more or less kept their heads down and their mouths shut because he was ruthless, absolutely ruthless, in finding and dealing with anyone who was even suspected of working against him. And that, ironically, is what did him in, the first time.”

“The first time?”

The Interim Secretary nodded at Smythe-Farrington, who continued, “Well, here’s the way I heard the story. In 1981, he somehow learned of a prophecy that a child would be born who could kill him. He identified this child as the son of James and Lily Potter, a young Wizard couple. He went to their house – it was in a village called Godric’s Hollow, don’t know rightly where that is exactly, but in any case – he killed the parents, and then he tried to kill their son, Harry, who was just one year old.”

“Tried to? He couldn’t kill a _baby_?”

“No. He couldn’t.” Smythe-Farrington smiled, broadly. “Not only did the boy live, You-Know-Who – well – V-Voldemort –“ (It was an effort, but by gum he got it out.) “—disappeared. Vanished. All his power was switched off, all over the country, all at once. It was the most amazing thing. We honestly thought he was dead.”

“But what happened? How could a year-old baby kill the most powerful Dark Wizard anyone’s ever heard of – and he must have been, if he was worse than Grindelwald – and walk off unscathed?”

“Not completely unscathed, but near enough. Harry Potter was said to be permanently marked with a scar on his forehead, in the shape of a bolt of lightning. As to how he did it, I didn’t know then and I don’t know today. I’m not sure anyone does.”

“What happened to the boy?”

“Harry Potter became famous throughout Britain as The Boy Who Lived, but he dropped out of sight. Dumbledore handled that, I believe, and he gave out that – “

“Dumbledore? _Albus_ Dumbledore? He’s the one who finally got Grindelwald in 1945, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he did. By 1981 he’d become Headmaster at Hogwarts. Ah….you know of Hogwarts?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of it, it’s the British Wizarding school. There's only the one, isn't there? I know it’s very old, but that's really about all I know.”

“Yes, just the one. But to answer your question, Dumbledore apparently placed Harry Potter with relatives while he grew up, and when he turned eleven, would certainly have brought him to Hogwarts. That’s where Harry was, so I understand, when – ah – _Voldemort_ ” (He spat the word, and glanced around triumphantly) “– came back.”

“So Voldemort’s back, and we’ve got to deal with him. Is he the one who’s been giving Parboil and Company their marching orders? Is that why you raided the Department?”

“You’re half right.” The Interim Secretary looked grim. “Angela?”

“According to the information we have now, he came back about three or four years ago,” said Mahan, “and yes, we strongly believe he had infiltrated the Department of Magic, and Slimy Parboil was his American satrap. Or one of them.”

“Or one of them,” Blackstone agreed heavily. “But it looks like we don’t have to ‘deal with him’ as you put it, because he’s dead.”

“Dead?” Light dawned, and I couldn’t help blurting out the obvious. “Was _that_ the psychic surge we felt? Voldemort’s death? Was that what started the Meltdown?”

“Meltdown?”

“Sorry, Captain, that’s just what I’ve been calling all this upheaval in my own mind. I guess I’ve been thinking that maybe _I_ started it, going after Nosey Seward!”

This time all three of them laughed, and after a minute I had to join in.

“No son, thanks for the compliment, but quick as we are, you just don’t mount a major assault operation in Washington, D.C. – much less get the President’s authorization for it – on the spur of the moment.” The Interim Secretary was still chuckling, and wiped his eye. “But I will tell you this, what you did to old Nosey is a lot of the reason you’re here right now.” He cocked his head and fixed me with a very direct, but not unfriendly, gaze. “You didn’t know anything about any of this. You didn’t know what that ‘surge’ was all about. You didn’t have any plans, you didn’t have any allies lined up, you just _did it_. Why?”

It took me a moment to realize he wasn’t asking a rhetorical question. “He – he used an _unforgivable curse_! What was I supposed to do?”

“Exactly what you did. Perhaps a better question would be, why didn’t anybody else tackle him? It was, after all, the _F.B.A._ _!_ Why didn’t everyone gang up on him?”

“I – I don’t know.”

“Angela, that question has been, and still is, top priority for you. What have you found out? Summarize for us.”

“Several factors combined, sir. Aside from the seven who died and the two who went mad, the others who were there at the time were all older people who’d been with the Department for some time, and had been office-bound paper pushers for most of it – their field experience was a ways in the past. Mostly, though, everyone was pretty thoroughly intimidated. Nosey had been just that, nosey, about the people under him, and had threatened several of them – at least four, and some others are still too afraid to tell me everything – over one thing or another in their records, in their pasts, or in their personal lives. Plus, they knew damn well that he was Slimy Parboil’s fair-haired boy, and they were thoroughly afraid of _him_.” She looked disgusted.

“Exactly. Jenkins, you were new enough that he hadn’t gotten around to you yet. My guess is that he would have threatened – oh, so carefully! – to come down on your parents, and blackmailed you into line that way, once he noticed you.”

“My parents?” I was aghast. “But my parents are Muggles! They couldn’t have – he wasn’t allowed to...”

“Crap.” Angela was hard-eyed. “He did exactly that to Joseph Bagalucci, and his parents are Muggles too. _Elderly_ Muggles, out in Oklahoma, in an ‘assisted living complex,’ whatever that is. Completely helpless against anything he wanted to do to them.”

“Joey?” My voice was small. I was horrified. “Joey Baggadonuts,” as we called him in a friendly way, was one of the nicest people I’d met in the section. He was in charge of S and R – Shrinkage and Retrieval of records – shrinking voluminous files down to something like the size of a postage stamp, so the Auror files could be kept in a single room, instead of needing a whole separate 55-story tower. And, of course, finding them and restoring them as needed. Joey was about 70, his hair was white, he always wore immaculate robes, and he was looking forward to retiring in a few years.

“Look here, Jenkins,” put in Smythe-Farrington kindly, “you’re just beginning to learn how bad this all is. Threats against an elderly Muggle couple, appalling as they are, are just a tempest in a teapot. We’ve got more information to give you, but if I may be forgiven a nautical cliché, we’re all in the same boat.”

“Yes we are. And we need you to help bail it out.” Blackstone looked very uncomfortable. “It looks like the American Wizarding community has been effectively infiltrated, influenced, and all-too-largely controlled by a foreign Wizard, and for all intents and purposes virtually cut off from the British Wizarding community for years, maybe _decades_ , and we didn’t even know it!”

I was looking at them in turn, my thoughts whirling. Angela Mahan laid it on the line.

“We need to send somebody to Britain to find out what happened, and what the situation is now. If Voldemort is really dead, and the Ministry of Magic is getting back on its feet, the U.S. Department of Magic urgently needs to re-establish communication with them. But all the senior officials here were either directly involved in the American side of the Voldemort conspiracy, or else were ensorcelled, or blackmailed – or both – into cooperating. It’s going to be awhile yet before we can be sure who’s trustworthy over here, and even when we do sort out the bad apples, the victims, the ones who’ve been cursed or compelled, aren’t very likely to be in any shape to do what needs to be done.”

Blackstone put in, “Our people overseas are a whole other problem. We've got to start dealing with them as soon as possible, and we've got to start with the United Kingdom.”

I was feeling completely out of my depth. “But Mr. Secretary, you – I mean, you’re –“

“I’m anchored to this building, son, by something stronger than any Epoxyhex – my duty. Everyone on my team – every single soul in this country that I absolutely KNOW I can trust – is trying to do six jobs at once just now, like Angela here.” Blackstone started to drink his coffee, made a face, picked up his wand and said “ _warmup_.’” The mug suddenly steamed; and he drank. “That’s why I was so happy to find you. As I said before, you must be wondering why I’m willing to trust someone I’ve just met. Time I answered that, I guess. I took a portkey out to Bloomington last weekend, and had a good long talk, and a very fine dinner, with Chancellor Bannerman.”

I had thought I was becoming immune to surprises, and I was wrong. I blinked several times. “How is he, sir?”

“He's fine, and sends you his best.” Blackstone smiled. “He thinks very highly of you indeed. He told me about your interest in Muggle technology, especially when it’s interfaced with magic. In fact, although he assured me several times he doesn’t have a shred of proof, he’s absolutely convinced you were OZ.”

I hesitated much too long. “…Oz?”

“Don’t play footsie with me, son. Owe-zee, the Whacker who made the Indiana Bureau of Motor Vehicles' computers display and print everything in very – colorful, shall we say? Limericks, until they rebooted the entire system. The fellow who, he strongly suspects, switched the electronic report that big international bank filed with the SEC with the private files lifted from their CFO's personal hard-drive, just before the scandal broke back in '91. The guy who Wizard-hacked the Muggle internet and phone systems and broke into computers in pretty much every high-security area on the continent, left a jpeg of the Rolling Stones' logo on the desktop, and never got caught. That’s the guy I’m recruiting.”

There was nothing for it. I shrugged. “More people are Whacking today, and it’s getting a bad name. Oz never hurt anybody or stole anything, just showed it could be done.”

“You’re cagy. That’s another thing I like about you. I should give you hell for risking exposure of the Wizarding world, but my own people have proven there’s just no way a Muggle programmer can even detect a Whack, unless it’s incredibly clumsy, which you weren’t. But it’ll come in handy. You’re going to have to fall back on Muggle methods at first, to get across the Atlantic and keep in touch with us, because right now we have no contact at all with a single Witch or Wizard anywhere in Britain – not even our own people.”

* * * * * * * * *


	3. Diagon Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving in Britain, Ryan visits Gringott's, is amazed by Diagon Alley, and happens to run into a tall red-haired Wizard with no left ear...

Do you know how long it takes to cross the Atlantic in an airplane? _Almost eight hours!_ Unbelievable! You sit for hours and hours, just waiting until you finally arrive. They did give us dinner, which might have been passable if I’d been able to eat it in peace. Then they showed a movie, a Muggle comedy that would have made no sense at all to anyone raised in the Wizarding world, and was pretty lousy even for me. But at least it mesmerized the blob and the needle, my seatmates, and I actually went to sleep.

When we landed at Heathrow, it was raining. And it was dark, which, I learned, also happens regularly in England. Admiral Blackstone had told Loretta not to book me into any hotel the Department had ever used before, and I ended up with a reservation at something called the Tottenham Arms Hotel. It was not a fleabag, but it was not luxurious unless you had just been rescued from a shipwreck. Dear Loretta.

At least my rollie-case didn’t get lost; Blackstone’s _mus followalongus_ charm worked perfectly. I unpacked a bit, showered and changed, and then set up my computer. It had come through all right, shrunk to the size of a pack of cards, with the keyboard about as big as a stick of gum. Geoffrey had said the AC power (he called it “the mains”) was different in Britain, so I reconfigured the power supply with a few taps of my wand. I really prefer a physical keyboard (and of course if you’ve got a wand you don’t need a mouse), but I’m glad I don’t have to lug around one of those CRT displays that are so heavy even when you shrink them, and have such a tiny screen. With my wand I drew a nice big display in mid-air, and connected it up with a multipair charm as the machine booted. My version of that charm makes each datastream glow in a different color; all black or invisible is lame.

Finding an internet connection was no problem, although my search spell only found a comparatively few really high-speed links. I settled on some bank I’d never heard of, Barclays. It had multiple passwords and all kinds of security, but I figured it was urgent Department business, so I typed in my Oz-override spell on the keyboard, tapped the display with my wand, and I was in.

We had set up a separate Wemail account on a completely different server, and I used that to write _Arrived safely and intact. Will go to Gringotts tomorrow as arranged, then explore the Wizarding community and seek the best way to contact the Ministry. Will report further by tomorrow night. RJ_ Then I invoked an encryption hex I am not going to write down, tapped the message with my wand, and it became _Lovely spring weather here. Can’t wait to tour the gardens, the tulips are just gorgeous! Going out now to chip some fish. Say hello to Mikey for me. Love, Emily._ Only Interim Secretary Blackstone’s wand would be able to decode that, even if someone knew the exact hex we were using. I hit send.

I dissolved the monitor and shut down the computer. I could have left it on the desk (it was protected by both a password and a spell that would turn any thief's or unauthorized user’s skin bright blue), but decided to take it with me, so I re-shrunk it, along with the keyboard, and put them in my pocket. Then I put on my windbreaker and left the room. The corridor was empty. I pointed my wand at the door and said “ _occlumensio portal_ ” which ensured that nobody, not even the chambermaids, would notice the door, or be able to find it even if they were looking for it.

The desk clerk readily suggested where I could get “a nice pint, and some decent fish and chips” (another of Geoffrey’s suggestions). “Chips” turned out to be French fries, served with vinegar instead of ketchup. Not bad at all, but different. A bar – make that “pub” – on the corner served a truly delicious, smooth porter, and I lingered for three pints. Back in my room, I slept like a log.

The next morning, I put on my Wizarding robes and took the Gringotts card out of my wallet. Grinslash, the goblin manager of Gringotts’ Washington branch, had assured me the card would take me right to the front of ( _not_ inside!) Gringotts in London – the first time. “After that, you ought to be able to find it for yourself!” he had rasped disdainfully. I held it in my left hand and Apparated.

He was right. I was looking up at the gleaming white, columned marble front of Gringotts, much like that of their branches I had seen across from the Treasury in Washington, and on Wall Street in New York. But the street! “Diagon Alley,” Geoffrey had said it was called. I had never seen anything like it. It was like a theme park. Witches and Wizards everywhere – that I expected – but it wasn’t a broad, tree-lined thoroughfare, it was narrow, twisting, and jammed on both sides with shops and buildings, at least half of which looked like they were about to fall down. The street was paved with stones, and the buildings were built out of wood and stones and everything except straight lines, it seemed. It all looked old. Really old.

My business in Gringotts was straightforward, to start with. I changed my American money for galleons, sickles, and knuts, reflecting that if a sickle was worth 59 cents in American Muggle currency, (or 38 and a half pokes in American Wizard money) and there were 17 sickles to a galleon, and 29 knuts to a sickle, it was going to take me some time to get a feel for costs over here. I opened a personal account, depositing most of the cash, and then asked to speak to a manager on “confidential business.”

The goblin at the counter looked at me suspiciously, but goblins look like that all the time, so I wasn’t worried. He called a superior, who introduced himself as Dreadneedle, and waved me through a heavily carved oaken door I would have sworn wasn’t there a minute ago, into a small room with two even more elaborately carved chairs facing each other across a small table. I presented my credentials from the Department of Magic, which didn’t seem to impress him much, and a scroll from Grinslash, which did. He subjected it to several tests, and when it didn’t burn up or melt away, he clapped his hands. A very large book appeared on the desk before him, and he leafed through it, reading the last page carefully. Then he looked up at me. I held up the tiny golden key, and he said “Very well, I will take you myself.”

I know it’s hard to believe, but the vaults in Gringotts London are even deeper, and even scarier to get to, than the ones in America. The passageways are raw stone, not tile, and lit by flaming torches – not even oil lamps, much less electric lights. The carts don’t even have seats – forget seatbelts! – and they go down the rickety, curvy tracks like the bullet train. When we got to the vault door connected with my key, my hair was a mess and I was very glad I hadn’t stopped for breakfast.

Dreadneedle seemed nervous, even embarrassed (although I’m not sure about that: I’ve never seen a goblin look embarrassed. But his eyes wouldn’t meet mine, and the tips of his ears started strobing in a shocking-pink shade). He palmed the door, which vanished, and stood aside.

The United States Department of Magic’s London vault was empty.

“Gringotts can take no responsibility for this,” the goblin said hastily. “The bank was taken over by the Ministry of Magic, until two weeks ago, and the records they left indicate that this vault was emptied over a month ago.”

“Who took the money?”

“Everything in the vault was removed, again according to the _Ministry’s_ records, on April sixth by an official of your Department of Magic, a Wizard named Palindrome Cutpurse Joey.”

I recognized the name, but gave no sign. “Pal” Joey was listed as Comptroller with the American Wizarding Liason Office, and I would have to ask him, if I could find him. I was disappointed, but not very surprised; this was one of the contingencies we had covered in our planning sessions.

Back on the street, I decided that breakfast was a pretty good idea after all. A couple of plump little Witches directed me to a café called The Magic Pot, which had a sign offering “any sort of omelet you can imagine!” Their waitress recommended the platypus-egg omelet, and I went along, as I’d never had one before. It tasted good, if rather strong, but I couldn’t be sure if she was kidding me when she explained that since the platypus was an Australian animal, they were always served upside down. We had a moment of confusion when she asked how many “rashers” of bacon I wanted. I had visions of whole sides of crackling pork, and hesitated, but it turns out that a “rasher” is simply one slice. The pomegranate juice was excellent, but the coffee made me wonder if the cook had served in the Royal Navy.

Wandering down Diagon Alley was a trip. I was reminded at first of Franklin Along, the street in Williamsburg that Muggles never see. But this was not a carefully-preserved reminder of what once was, this was a place that _still_ was, and apparently wasn’t going to change. I had a funny feeling, like I might meet old Ben Franklin wandering along the cobblestones in his Wizard robes, looking like the cheerful, winking figure in Arsfardel’s famous portrait that hangs in the lobby of the Department of Magic, and then realized that he probably _had_ wandered here, during his many years in London. The funny feeling got stronger.

Many of the shops were plastered with signs saying things like “Grand Re-Opening!” or “Back In Business” and quite a few had displays in their windows with placards announcing “Victory Specials For Hogwarts Students.” The snatches of conversation I overheard in passing were mostly busy and cheerful, but there was a sprinkling of sorrow and regret, here and there – an elderly couple with downcast eyes, being shepherded along by a young Witch saying “…and we’ll get it all back, don’t you worry about that…” – and suchlike. Children were in evidence, and several times I spotted small groups apparently meeting for the first time in awhile, with excited waving, smiles, and handshakings.

What I did not encounter was fear. There was a sense of rebirth and renewal, but nothing of oppression, not a whiff of terror. If dark magic was nowhere to be found, old Voldemort must be dead for sure. It was a only first impression, but it was a strong one. At any rate, if this was the atmosphere, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out more about the situation at the Ministry.

I window-shopped like a tourist. It seemed quite natural – after all, I was a tourist! There was an “Apothecary Shop” which seemed to be a drugstore, carrying all sorts of potion ingredients in glass jars, no pre-measured portions or bubble-pack displays to be seen. Scribbulus was a stationery store, selling (I kid you not) quill pens and pots of ink. I wondered what they would think about a line of self-filling fountain pens, eternal Magicball pens, or modern white parchment cut into sheets with Wizzi-Clip charms embossed in the upper left hand corner. Still, the vast array of different feathers in their window made a lovely multicolored display, and I made a mental note to pick up a few unusual ones to bring back as souvenirs.

Quality Quidditch Supplies had a cluster of young people in front of their window, and when I joined them I heard a lot of happy, excited comments about the sleek, graceful Firebolt XT broom in the front window. European racing brooms were incredibly expensive in the States, and I wondered how it would stack up against souped-up American muscle brooms like my Eagle 409. Looking at the lines of the Firebolt, I guessed that it might be more maneuverable, but felt sure the Eagle would take it down handily when it comes to acceleration and speed. Well, fairly sure, anyway.

The cauldrons on display in Potage’s Cauldron Shop looked practical enough, and came in a considerable variety of materials including solid gold, but I didn’t see any pressure cauldrons – it seemed people were content to let their potions simmer slowly. That was typical: while there was a cheerful, bustling sort of feeling to the crowd, there was nothing of hurry or urgency like you find in New York.

Ollivander’s Wand Shop was closed and shuttered, which was disappointing. Geoffrey Smythe-Farrington had spoken very highly of him, and was proud of his own Ollivander wand. There was only a small card on the door reading “Please watch this space for further announcements.”

Another shop was unfortunately closed – Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour. I would have happily bought an ice cream cone, but there'd obviously been a death in the family. The windows were boarded up, the sign was hung with black crepe, and the space in front was crowded with flowers, both cut and potted. The cut flowers looked exactly like they had just been snipped this minute; the preservative charm someone had used was clearly better than anything I was used to seeing from florists back home. Dodging aside for an elderly couple coming the other way, I got too close to the potted plants and two of them lunged at me.

Not long after that, I came upon the most unusual shop on the whole street, which is really – _really!_ – saying a lot. Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was a joke shop, and its front was full of colorful signs and displays, but it too was closed and dark. Two of the W’s were hanging askew. It looked like it had been closed for some time. There were scorch marks around the front door and a large crack in one of the display windows. The glass was sooty, and I went over to the left window, wiped off a spot, and peered through it, shielding my eyes with my hand. There was a display of something called “Ton-Tongue Toffees” ( _Now_ Positively Guaranteed _to wear off in 30 minutes or less, or your money back!_ ) and I was wondering if that would make a nice souvenir for Loretta Peebles.

“Hello! May I show you something?” A tall fellow in bright green robes, with red hair and no left ear, had come up behind me.

“I was just looking. Too bad they’re closed.”

“Not for long.” He summoned up a smile. “George Weasley. I’m – the proprietor, and we’ve just come to open up.”

“Cool! I’m Ryan Jenkins, pleased to meet you!” We shook, and I suddenly realized he was accompanied by three others – an older man and a younger one, both with red hair, and a pretty young Witch with brown hair, who was holding hands with the younger fellow. George introduced them as his father, Arthur, his younger brother Ron, and Hermione Granger.

“Looks like our protective hexes held up, for the most part at least,” said George thoughtfully. “Damage seems superficial. Tell me, did you feel anything when you wiped off the glass?”

“No, I didn’t. Should I have?”

“A tingling, nothing painful unless you tried to break the glass.” He shook his head. “Good job we came down today, if the spells are wearing thin.” He looked through the place I’d wiped. “Doesn’t look bad, but I can’t really see much. All right, be best if you all kept back ten feet – fifteen would be better – while I just make sure all the protective spells are deactivated.”

He shepherded us back into the street, and I saw my cue. “You folks must have a lot to do, and I’d better be getting along and leave you to it. I might stop by later though –“

“Not on your life!” George interrupted me with a jovial grin that seemed just a bit forced. “Chase off the first customer on the first day back? That’s no way to remember Fred. Please, do wait here just a mo. I’ll have the place open in two shakes. Well, maybe three.” He moved off as he spoke, drawing his wand.

Hermione Granger was a sharp cookie; she cut to the chase right away. “Are you an American?”

“Yes I am, Miss Granger. I’ve never been to Diagon Alley before, I just got here yesterday.”

“Oh, well, that explains it – you haven’t heard. But please, let’s not be so formal, you just can’t, anyway, at Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes!” Once again, a smile that seemed slightly forced, but deeply in earnest. “I’m Hermione.”

“Thanks. I’m Ryan. Or Hey You! Or anything, except late for dinner.”

She laughed, and the two men smiled. The younger one said “Ron,” and looked at his father, who said “Arthur, yes of course.”

“Thaaaat’s got it!” from George was followed by the door swinging open with a groan. He said “Wait – don’t come in just yet – I’ll just nip inside first and make sure…” He walked on in, wand at the ready, and we waited expectantly for a few breaths. Then there was a loud explosion, and a cloud of purple smoke _whuffed_ out the door, followed by a thick, high-speed burst of spinning metal stars, which melted into little silver puddles after they passed the doorway. Then with another _bang!_ a large orange-and-green dragon’s head emerged, opened its mouth and belched forth a spout of blue flame that went all the way across the street, licking at the window in a bakery shop, before dragon and flame suddenly turned into little puffs of smoke and blew away. I looked around, startled, but the others took all this in stride, nodding their heads knowingly, and the baker across the way came out with a big grin on his face and applauded.

George appeared in the doorway, coughing. He scraped off what looked like bright yellow slugs from his left sleeve and tossed them into the street, used a large scarlet handkerchief on the slimy spot, and bowed us ceremoniously inside. “Doesn’t look so bad, but let’s just see.” He raised his wand and said _“Lumos Omnius!”_ and lights came on. All the displays looked dusty, but all looked as if they had not been disturbed, except along the central corridor. Shelves and merchandise there were disarranged, and some lay on the floor, in an area about halfway back.

“That was my doing,” said George. “I was concentrating on remembering all the spells we cast when we shut the place up, and completely forgot about the ordinary night security jinx. Doesn’t look like anything else is disturbed.”

I was looking around at Fanged Flyers, Dungbombs, Screaming Yo-Yos and Nose-Biting Teacups, and thinking of how Jamie Two Eagles and several other school friends would absolutely love to be here. “Wow! _Cool_!”

George smiled at my enthusiasm, a genuine smile all the way through this time. “You like it then? Everything’s a bit dusty, don’t mind that, go on and have a look round. In fact – Ron, Hermione, why don’t you show our first customer round the place, and just have a squint as you go for anything that needs tending to. Dad, come with me and we’ll have a look in the back.”

He and Arthur headed down the aisle, and Ron led the way between the front shelves and the windows. We stood and looked over a rack of fireworks, and I decided to probe a little. “Listen, can I ask a question? What did George mean when he talked about remembering Fred?” Ron gave a big sigh and suddenly looked sad, and I felt I’d said something wrong. “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to pry or anything.”

“No, it’s all right, really it is.” Hermione patted Ron’s shoulder. “We ought to just tell you. George founded this shop with his twin brother, Fred, but Fred was killed in the battle at Hogwarts, fighting Voldemort.” Ron winced, and she squeezed his arm.

I was taken aback and felt like an intruder. “Oh, wow. _Your_ brother too, of course, Ron – I’m really sorry. And – his _twin_ brother?”

“Identical twins, actually,” said Ron. I couldn’t say anything, but I must have looked stricken because he nodded. “It’s been right hard on all of us but especially George. He and Fred always had so much fun! For awhile it looked like George was going to just chuck it. The store, I mean. But he came round to thinking that would be like letting Voldemort win, letting him kill off their fun, and so now he’s decided to re-open the business, have even more fun, and make even more money.”

“That sounds like a great way to remember Fred.”

“Yeah, it is, although it’s going to be – well, anyway, when George announced he was going down to the shop today, we came along for moral support, like.”

“Good for you.”

“Mum couldn’t face it, not this soon, and Ginny stayed with her. Charlie's gone back to his dragons for a few days, but Percy and Bill said they’d come along later, and Dad got leave from the Ministry, and here we are.”

At the word “Ministry” I was suddenly alert, but Hermione spoke up. “Did you hear about Lord Voldemort in America?”

“Oh yes, we heard of him, but – he attacked _Hogwarts_? There was fighting at the school?”

“Oh yeah,” said Ron. “Big battle, lots of people hurt and cursed and – killed...” He hesitated, then filled his lungs. “ – but in the end, Harry got Voldemort and he’s dead. Gone for good this time.”

“Harry? Harry Potter? Do you know him?”

They looked at each other and the corners of their mouths went up. “We've met,” offered Hermione. “Passing acquaintance,” agreed Ron. _Understatement is a national sport over here_ , I thought. This seemed like maybe too much good luck, too quickly, but then I remembered something Admiral Blackstone said to me just before I left.

_“Plans are fine, son, but in the Navy, we always say that no plan survives contact with the enemy. When you get to Britain, you’re going to have to react to circumstances, to make it up as you go along. I know you can do it, you’ve done it – so go out there and Whack this problem, take your best opportunity and build on it.”_

I realized my decision had already been made, and took the plunge. “Did you say your father works at the Ministry of Magic?”

“Yeah, he does.” Ron's brow was slightly furrowed.

“Can I ask – what he does there?”

Ron's furrow deepened, and he didn't speak. After a moment, Hermione did. “There's no reason not to share public knowledge, Ron. Arthur was in charge of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office, but since – the battle – he's been helping the Minister directly.” Ron looked her, and she told him, “Even the Daily Prophet has reported that much.”

“Uhhh, listen, can we be overheard here?” I was looking around.

“I don’t think so,” said Hermione, “why?”

“Well, I’d really like to talk to your – to Arthur, privately. I mean, you guys can listen, that’s all right, but I wouldn’t want to be overheard by just anyone.”

“What’s this all about, mate?” Ron sounded suspicious, and Hermione was looking at me with a very steady gaze.

I lowered my voice. “Well, I said I’d just gotten here, and I have, but really I was just _sent_ here – by the United States Department of Magic. I’m supposed to find out what’s going on and see if Lord Voldemort is really dead.” Ron’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. “I’ve got credentials on me, I can prove it.”

Hermione looked skeptical. “Why didn’t you just go to the Ministry? And doesn’t your Department of Magic have some sort of an office over here?”

“We don’t have any contact with anyone over here now. Even our own people haven’t responded and we think they might be dead.”

Ron shook his head slowly. “But….how did...”

Hermione put a hand on his sleeve and interrupted him. “Wait, Ron. We’d better let Ryan show his credentials to your Dad before we go any further.” She gave him a very direct look, and after a moment, he nodded. “Right. Let’s go on back.” Ron and Hermione followed me, and I noticed they were holding their wands in their hands.

In the back room, we found George looking over shelves of stock, while Arthur sat on the corner of a desk, looking unhappy. Hermione stood in front of him. “Ryan would like to talk to you for a bit – it looks like it’s Ministry business – and we think you ought to hear what he has to say.”

“Ministry business? But – aren’t you an American?”

“Yes, I am. That’s why – “

“Oy! Ron! Who’s minding the store?” George came hurrying over.

“This is important, George, sorry, but we’ve got to be back here for a bit.”

“But – “ George started to protest but stopped when Hermione gave him a look and a shake of her head. “Right, then, I’ll just watch things out front.” He hurried away.

I took a deep breath. “Arthur – Mr. Weasley – I am an official representative of the United States Department of Magic, and I’ve been sent over here to assess the situation and establish contact with the Ministry of Magic. It’s a little complicated. No, actually, it’s a lot complicated. But maybe it would be best if I started by showing you my credentials.”

Arthur's surprise was obvious. “Yes – yes, I should very much like to see those.”

I pulled the red leather case out from my robe, and tapped it with my wand. The Departmental Seal appeared on the front, embossed in gold; the eagle spread his wings and looked around, then folded them and sat down again. I opened the case and took out the scroll, wrapped in broad red tape.

Arthur Weasley took out his wand and tapped the tape, which fell away as the scroll unrolled. “I’ve had dealings with your Department before,” he said, and pointed his wand at the Seal on the scroll. “ _E pluribus unum, locomotor insignae_.” The eagle in that Seal spread its wings and took off, circling the document three times and flying off in a straight line; when it reached the wall it vanished and reappeared on the document.

“Let me see – south-southwest – yes, that’s right.” He picked up the scroll and read it through, his eyebrows climbing, and then looked at me. “This appears to be quite genuine. The signature, however – I thought your Secretary of Magic was a Wizard called Parboil.”

“ _Was_ is correct. Parboil's dead. We think he was one of Voldemort's people.”

“Really!” Arthur (and the others) looked at me with fierce intentness. I looked straight back at him.

“Yes sir. Interim Secretary Blackstone is in charge now.”

“I see. But you know, you’re quite young. Forgive me, please, but are you _really_ the Undersecretary for Foreign Wizarding Relations?”

Ron and Herminone looked startled. I gave him a lopsided grin.

“Believe me, I find it hard to believe too, but yes, I really am, and have been for almost four whole days now. I have one other credential, if that’s what it’s called, that may answer your questions. Some of them, anyway. If I may show it to you?”

Arthur nodded. I lifted my wand and drew a comfortably large display screen in the air, positioned so everyone could see it. I dug the little golden Random Access Magic charm from my inside pocket and set it on top. A tap of my wand brought the screen to life, showing Admiral Blackstone, sitting at his desk. He spoke.

_“Hello. I’m Alistair Blackstone, Admiral, United States Navy, retired, and currently serving as Interim Secretary of the United States Department of Magic, by Presidential appointment under Emergency Magical Decree 1138. If you are watching this, you have been identified as an appropriate audience by our new Undersecretary for Foreign Wizarding Relations, Ryan Jenkins.”_

My face, turning from side to side and nodding gravely, my USDM identity card, and my wand, shown in great detail, filled the display for a few seconds, and then Blackstone returned.

“ _The following is confidential. It now appears that over a period of many years, our Department of Magic has been infiltrated, influenced, suborned, and recently almost entirely controlled, by agents of a British dark Wizard calling himself Lord Voldemort. His chief American operative was, apparently, former Secretary of Magic Sylvester Koch Parboil, who has been deposed and is no longer living._

_“We believe that black magic, and other nefarious influences, have been used to poison and strangle communications and relations between the Wizarding community in the United States and our friends in the United Kingdom. We have some strong indications, but as yet no concrete proof, that Lord Voldemort is now dead, and his people are no longer a threat. On the other hand, we have not been able to get in touch with any of our own officials in the Wizarding Liason Office in London; do not know, at this point, the status of the Ministry of Magic or its various officials; and can not be sure who, among the British subjects currently in the United States, should be trusted._

_“Accordingly, I have instructed Undersecretary Jenkins to proceed at once to the United Kingdom, and have fully authorized him to take all measures necessary to re-establish contact and good relations with the Ministry of Magic, and the Wizarding community in general. Your help and cooperation in furtherance of his most important mission will be deeply appreciated by everyone here in the Department of Magic – especially me. Thank you very much.”_

The display dissolved, and I caught the RAM charm as it dropped. They all looked at me. Arthur’s eyes were shining. Ron’s eyes were wide open, as was his mouth. Hermione looked thunderstruck, and turned to me eagerly. “A – a magical _videotape_! How did you _do_ that?”

***************


	4. Weasley's Wizard Wheezes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan helps reopen the shop and then presents his credentials to Arthur, who invites him to The Burrow.

I kind of thought we would go straight to the Ministry, but Arthur had other ideas. As he re-rolled and re-ribboned the scroll with a flick of his wand, handing it back to me, he said, “Not quite sure how to handle this, you see.” He rubbed his chin. “Or rather, how Kingsley would like to have it handled. Kingsley Shacklebolt – he’s Minister for Magic now, took over when You-Know – I mean, when _Voldemort_ was killed. Much like your Admiral Blackstone, it seems. Of course this is obviously of the first importance, and I shouldn't want to put a foot wrong, first crack off the bat. But I say, you don't seem to be very fond of protocol, do you?”

“Protocol? Sounds like one of those pills they sell for old people.”

“Right.” He smiled, and his eyes crinkled up. “I think the best thing would be to introduce you to Kingsley quite privately, so he, and you, can have the widest possible freedom to arrange things. What I have in mind is getting you both into our living room at home, today if at all possible.”

I was delighted, and said so. He formally invited me back to the Weasley home for dinner, and then said, “Where are you staying, by the way?” I told him, and he looked horrified. “Sounds like a ruddy Muggle flea-trap. Look here, the Ministry will certainly find you proper accommodations, as soon as you’ve presented your credentials anyway. Oh, definitely! Diplomatic necessity and all that, after all! In the meantime, won’t you please come along and stay with us, at least for tonight? Plenty of room!” He wouldn’t listen to my protest about imposing, and left to send some owls.

I Apparated directly back to the hotel room, changed back to my Muggle costume, put on my backpack, trundled my rollie-case down to the lobby, and checked out. In the alley next to the hotel I waited until no people or cars were visible, and popped back to 93 Diagon Alley. I set my luggage in the back room, put on my robes, and pitched in with the others to help George.

Hermione was dusting (“Oh, I do wish Molly were here, she’d make short work of this!”); George had re-stacked the things he’d knocked down and was now going around the store on a ladder which somehow moved itself through the crowded aisles without bumping into anything, followed obediently by a scroll of parchment and a quill, taking down the inventory numbers he called out as he went.

Ron was outside, trying to clean up the front of the building. He had straightened the W's, repaired the cracked window, and was just vanishing the last of the soot, but the scorch marks around the door were more difficult. The charm he had used on the soot just smeared them. “Mum would know just how to deal with these,” he said, scratching his head, “she’s been doing it for years. Quite used to people blowing stuff up all over the house.”

“That’s so cool!” I looked at Ron in frank admiration. My Mom, much as I love her, would never get used to people blowing stuff up anywhere. “Maybe George will think they’re good advertising.” Ron grinned at me and I grinned back. “Probably ought to get rid of that sign now,” I suggested, pointing to the huge purple poster in the right-hand window with faded yellow letters that read “WHY ARE YOU WORRYING ABOUT YOU-KNOW-WHO? YOU SHOULD BE WORRYING ABOUT U-NO-POO, THE CONSTIPATION SENSATION THAT’S SWEEPING THE NATION!”

“Oh – yeah. I’d say that definitely needs freshening up, wouldn’t you? Right, then!” Ron stepped inside and the sign vanished. I looked around, and saw a number of passing Witches and Wizards looking at the store and smiling; several waved cheerily. Two young boys saw me standing in front and came over.

“Excuse me, sir, but do you know if Weasleys' is opening up again?”

“I think so, but I don't know exactly when. Mr. Weasley's come down to take inventory and such. When it is open for business, I think you'll know!”

“I 'spect so, they get everything going again. Can't miss Weasleys', from practically anywhere in the Alley. Jumps right out at yer! Brilliant place – sir?”

I had been distracted. “Oh, sorry – thought I saw someone I knew. Yep, it's a great place, and it'll be back before long, don't worry.” They waved and trotted off. What I had seen, though, was still bothering me. Behind the boys, people were passing in both directions. A tall Wizard in black robes was not a very unusual sight, but I had been enjoying the variety of faces, and this one had kept his hood up and his head turned. But when I looked down, I thought I recognized his boots. They had pointed toes, and higher heels than I'd seen any other British Wizards wearing, but all I really got was a quick impression and a flash of color. They looked like grey-green leather. I thought of following him, but just then, Ron came back out, and I decided, one, it was probably just co-incidence, two, it was almost certainly none of my business, and three, I'd better not go running off anywhere when I was making so much progress here.

Ron looked at the front of the store and said, “Don’t know what we can do about the other window, though, it’s gone dead. Used to flash and spark like anything. All sorts of different things crammed in there. We’ll just have to leave it to George, there’s no way to figure out all the spells they used on that stuff.”

“Want to bet?”

“What do you mean? You think you can reanimate all those things? I wouldn’t try it if I were you, likely enough you’ll end up with ten-foot-long ears, or a tail, or upchucking slugs, or something.”

“Hello fellows!” Arthur Weasley was returning. “It’s all set, Kingsley and the others will meet us at The Burrow as soon as they can get away after work. Got the store front cleaned up, I see.”

“Yeah, except for those scorch marks.”

“I think I can sort those for you.” Arthur pointed his wand and muttered a charm I didn’t catch, and the scorch marks popped off the doorframe, fell to the ground, and shattered into bits. He waved his wand again and the fragments disappeared. “Right! But George will have to deal with all those animated displays, I should think. Take us weeks to figure out how the boys – that is to say, all the different spells and things.” He looked unhappy again.

“Ryan thinks he can do it.” Ron looked at me and raised an eyebrow. Arthur turned toward me, looking a question.

“Well, maybe. I can try, anyhow.”

“Oh, no, that might be dangerous. Believe me, I know!” Arthur was shaking his head.

“Don’t worry, I won’t actually do anything, just analyze them. It’d be better to do that from inside, though.”

We went in, and I stood directly behind the display, with my back up against the nearest shelf. Ron and Arthur watched from the central aisle, and Hermione joined them. George’s ladder brought him through the crowded aisles a lot quicker than I would have thought it could; arriving, he climbed down. “Oh I say, don’t need to worry about the window display just now. Lots of things to set going again, repair, or what not – might be easier all round to just chuck the lot and start over.”

“Well, I can at least do a quick analysis and generate a list of problems and suggested fixes.”

“Oh…well, that’s very nice of you to think of it, I must say, but honestly, you needn’t go to all that trouble, take you hours!”

“Oh no, it’ll just take a couple of minutes.”

That got his attention, so I pulled out my computer equipment and restored it to full size, letting it float at a comfortable height. Ron’s eyes opened wide in surprise, Hermione’s mouth made an astonished “O”, and George was suddenly intent.

Arthur looked like he’d just found a Philosopher’s Stone on his bedside table one morning. “What in the world – is that one of those Muggle things? A compo – comper…”

“A computer! I’ve got one at home – my parents have three – but they use electricity, and don't work at all in a magical environment.” Hermione gave a little gasp and said breathily, “You’ve got a _Wizarding Computer!_ ”

“Yep. It works by magic, not electricity...but it uses the electrical components, the – um, paths that the electricity takes, as sort of templates, or models, or diagrams – it's complicated. And it takes a whole lot of different spells and charms, working together. But it will work in a magical environment – I used it at school – and the only time it needs any electricity is when you interface with Muggle computers or computer networks.”

“You can use magic _and_ electricity?” Arthur was staring at me in open-mouthed astonishment.

“Well, yes, but only if you're connecting to a Muggle computer and even then not really – the electricity serves as sort of a model for the magic that affects other electricity, although it does get used up in the process. But I don't need to do that here – watch.” I drew a nice big monitor and connected it, and the machine booted up as the others watched, fascinated. Tapping the icon on my desktop with my wand, I loaded up EMCASS, my magical circuit analyzing spell. Clamping the wand in my armpit, I put the passcode in with the keyboard. That was a significant extra layer of security in the Wizarding world: not only was the code kept only inside my head, very few Wizards or Witches could deal with a keyboard. Its very _raison d’ etre_ was, at least for the older crowd, outside their experience, and even if they knew what it was, the QWERTY configuration tended to confuse them completely.

I used my wand to outline the shop window, then hit “Enter,” and a beautiful antique hourglass appeared. The sand ran through slowly, then faster, then much faster, then slowly for about five seconds, then very fast indeed, squirting through like a fire hose and emptying very quickly. It was replaced by a diagram, and I shook my head in annoyance. It showed an insane jungle of connections. “Oh – puffinstuff!” I’d forgotten to limit the program to the window glass, and it was picking up things from people in the street, and the shops on the other side. Hastily tapping Cancel, I entered three feet as an estimated limit, and tried again. This time I got a much more readable picture, showing color-coded icons for the various items in the window, connected here and there with lines showing the interactions and boundaries of the various charms and such that activated things.

“There we go. Let’s see....twelve, thirteen, fourteen...eighteen different items altogether – those are the various colored icons.” George and Ron looked at each other and back at the display. Arthur and Hermione stared intently and never noticed. They all moved closer. “The green ones are not using any magic in the display – they’re just there, like the Ton-Tongue Toffees here. It’s just the sign and the box – here, they’ve turned grey, not sure why yet but they’re not happening at all. Hmmm. Purple means explosive, let’s not mess with those! See here, those are boundaries or spacers –

“Guardrails. We always called ‘em rails. They keep the spells separated…” George was excited.

“—so nothing sets something else off by accident, or messes up the function of another item?”

George nodded at me slowly. “Exactly. Never been able to see them before.”

It took a lot longer than the five or ten minutes I would have taken by myself. We talked a lot. I explained how the program analyzed and displayed magical and electrical connections, and indicated any interfacing. In the process, I had my first impressions confirmed: the Wizarding world in Britain had kept itself so completely separate from the Muggle world that they lagged well behind the technological curve. In the end, I asked George for a sheet of parchment, and with my wand, lifted the list of problems from the display and wafted it over to the parchment. It settled down, straightened itself, and I tapped it with my wand to fix it.

Arthur reached out, almost hesitantly, and picked it up. “It’s quite beautiful. Just as if it came off a printing press. Full color. Absolutely amazing. Can Muggles do this?”

“Oh yes, but they have to have a machine called a printer, and it runs by electricity.”

“Look here,” said Arthur, “until recently I was in charge of the Misuse Of Muggle Artifacts department. Don’t you have something like that in America?”

“The Department has the Misuse Of Magic Office, and the states' departments have their own as well. MOMO people deal with relatively minor things like people bewitching roulette wheels, or playing jokes on Muggles by hexing their clothes dryers to eat just one of a pair of socks, or making wallets or cellphones or tax forms hide themselves when people go to look for them – I guess that’s what you’re talking about?” He nodded. “But using Muggle technology entirely within the Wizarding world, or interfacing it with magic, is not illegal in America, as long as there’s no risk of exposing our existence, of course.”

Ron said in an eager hush, “Do Americans have – flying cars?” Hermione rolled her eyes and hit him on the shoulder.

“Not really much call for them,” I said, “Brooms and Apparition are so much more convenient. Why do you ask?”

Ron looked uncomfortable; Hermione giggled and said, “Because Arthur made a car fly, and Ron and Harry flew it to Hogwarts in our second year. They got in SO much trouble!”

We all laughed, although Ron and Arthur's faces were a bit pink, and I added, “Most states do offer permits for Magically Modified Vehicles. But you have to have the vehicle officially inspected, and all the enchantments – especially invisibility, concealment spells, confunding charms and such – have to be certified. Still, there's plenty of Wizards that have cars, and some of 'em do like to tinker. Seems like there's always some good ol' boy somewhere getting busted for an unregistered Siphoning Spell.”

They looked at each other, and I explained, “Refills your tank when you drive past a gas station. If it doesn't transfer payment and modify the financial records, that's stealing. And if it doesn't modify their inventory records to account for the gas you've taken, you could be charged with Muggle Interference, or even CRME – Criminal Risk of Magical Exposure – and that's a Federal crime.”

“Your cars run on – gas?” Arthur was puzzled.

“Gasoline.”

“Oh! You mean petrol.”

“Oh.” I was nonplussed. “Okay.” They all laughed, and I had to join in. I thought of Geoffrey, and said “Before I left, someone told me we were two nations divided by a common language. Now I'm beginning to get the joke!” And we laughed again.

By the time we left the shop, the window was working again, the inventory was done, and I was the proud owner of half a dozen trick wands, a Ton-Tongue Toffee and a Canary Cream (couldn't decide which was better), a pair of Extendable Ears, a bottle of Sunny Spells for my parents, and a Portable Swamp. George started to say something about “Listen, you've helped us a lot, so...” and I cut him off. “Oh, no, I'll pay for these. Under the circumstances, I think I can put them on my expense account as a diplomatic neces sity, and when am I ever going to get another chance like that?”

The Burrow, home of the Weasley family, is near a village called Ottery St. Catchpole. I don’t know if that means there was a St. Catchpole, a St. Ottery who had a catchpole (whatever that is), or a St. Catch who was a Pole and had an ottery. British place names can get pretty weird. But I didn’t see the village; we traveled by floo powder, and climbed out of the fireplace into a house that quickly became one of my favorite places in the whole world.

Everything has to be neat and orderly at work, of course, but when I’m home I’m a lot looser; I like the place to feel lived-in and I don't much mind clutter. The Burrow was lived-in, to the max, by anywhere from three to a dozen people at any given moment. It was crowded, jumbled, messy, and comfortable as your favorite pair of shoes. It had several stories, obviously added and maintained by Magic. Just looking at it from outside would have given any Muggle carpenter an immediate heart attack, but it felt solid as the Wizard's Platform on Plymouth Rock.

All the more remarkable, I learned later, because it had been burnt to the ground by Death Eaters the year before. It had taken Arthur and Molly years to build up, but the rebuilding went a lot faster, because this time they had a lot of help, much of it surreptitious. Carpenter and plumber wizards, building materials, furnishings (and chickens) just arrived, usually in the dead of night, and when Arthur went to buy things from a Wizarding vendor, the bill was very often marked “paid” with a wink or a pat on the shoulder. By now, a whole new generation of clutter had settled in.

But the best part about The Burrow is the people you meet there. As we straightened up, getting out of the fireplace, a plump Witch wearing an apron hurried into the room. “Arthur! We only got your owl an hour ago. Ginny's upstairs getting Charlie's room ready, but I've been – oh! Hello,” she interrupted herself, noticing me.

“Molly, this is our new friend, Ryan Jenkins. He's just come from the United States, from their Department of Magic. Ryan, my wife Molly.”

“Pleased to meet you, I'm sure.” Molly's hair was as red as the others, which was no surprise at all. She smiled, and we shook hands.

“Hi, Molly, delighted to meet you, and I hope I haven't got you in too much of a ruckus with all the short notice.”

“Not a bit of it! You come right on in and make yourself at home. Arthur told me you're staying over. Ron, would you take Ryan's things up? Hello Hermione dear! Where's George?”

“Here I am, Mum!” George was just emerging, brushing at his robe. “What's for supper?”

Molly bustled right through us and gave George a big hug. “Hello, dear. How did it go, then?”

“All right, actually, quite all right. Even made a sale! The old place wasn't too badly knocked about after all, and everybody pitched in. I actually got the inventory done, and Ryan here was amazing, he figured out how to get the window displays going again!”

His enthusiasm brought a broad smile to Molly's face, and tears were running down her cheeks at the same time. “Oh, that's wonderful George!” She hugged him again, and turned to me. “You are _very_ welcome, Ryan! Would you care for a nice cup of tea?”

“Butterbeer!” Ron and George said it together.

“Right!” said Arthur, “let's just wash down all that dust, shall we?”

I was told that it was United Kingdom butterbeer, yes, and also British butterbeer, quite true, but most particularly it was real _English_ butterbeer. And it was excellent. Like the porter I'd had last night, it wasn't really cold, just cool, but it had loads of flavor and a lovely full body. While we were being served, a very pretty young Witch with long hair in a very familiar shade of red came into the room, and was promptly introduced as Ginny, the Weasleys' youngest. She had a sunny disposition.

“This is lovely, I've never met an American before!”

“Well, we're even, then, because this is my first visit to Britain, and I've never met a pretty red-haired British Witch before, and here I've met two!”

Molly snorted into her teacup. “Get along with you!”

Ginny giggled, and then asked, “How long have you been here, then?”

“Uh – less than a day. My flight landed at Heathrow about 7 yesterday evening.”

“Whoa! You flew on an _airplane_? Across the ocean?!” Ron demanded.

“Yeah, had to. The Department didn't have a single Trans-Atlantic Portkey we could trust. It's not bad, really, it just takes such a long—”

“Harry!” Suddenly Ginny's attention was no longer on me. She ran toward the fireplace and threw herself around a medium-tall Wizard with unruly black hair, knocking his glasses askew. For a long minute they weren't aware of anyone else, but at length they broke the kiss, and looked up, their faces pink. Harry adjusted his glasses.

Molly was beaming, and Arthur was smiling as he said, “Harry, I'd like you to meet our new American friend, Ryan Jenkins. He's been quite a help to us today. Ryan, this is Harry Potter.”

I stood up and we met in the middle of the room, shaking hands. “How d' you do,” he said with a smile.

I grinned back. “Fine, thanks! I can see I don't have to ask _you_. When's the wedding?”

Harry blushed, but he laughed, which made Ginny giggle again, and everyone joined in. “We haven't set the date yet. Still sorting everything out.”

“Of course.” I looked over at Ron and Hermione. “Is it going to be a double wedding?”

They both turned pink, and Hermione asked “Are we that obvious?”

“Well, to be fair,” I admitted, judiciously, “only utterly, completely, and totally.” Everyone laughed again.

Harry turned to Arthur. “Percy said to tell you he's swamped, he's got a whole stack of reports to write for tomorrow morning. He expects to be up half the night, and is going to kip on the sofa at the Clearwaters' place in town. Bill'll be along in a minute, though, and Kingsley – that is, the Minister,” (glancing at me) “said he'll come out as soon as he can, probably be a half hour or more though, and hopes there'll be something left. Said he hasn't eaten all day.”

“Someone get this man a butterbeer! Wait – mine's empty, I'll do it.” George hurried out.

“Sorry I didn't make it down to the store,” said Harry, “but it looks like George got a bit of a boost.”

“It's lovely, isn't it? It turned out there wasn't nearly as much to do as we'd thought,” Hermione said, “and I rather think just being busy was a big help for George.”

“And when Ryan turned up with his computer, George really got interested,” added Ron.

Harry looked startled, and turned toward me. “Computer? You brought a computer to Diagon Alley?”

Before I could reply, George came back with two mugs of butterbeer. “Here you are, old man!” He handed one to Harry, and raised the other. It was neatly snatched out of his hand by yet another tall, red-haired Wizard, dressed in pearl-grey robes, who had just emerged from the fireplace. His face was damaged. Part of it was missing, although the wound had healed.

“Thanks awfully, old man!” He took a good healthy draft. “Ahhhh – you certainly do know how to make a fellow feel at home.” George threw up his hands and left to get another mug, and I was introduced to Bill Weasley, currently on loan to the Ministry from Gringotts. “So you're the fellow, eh? One of our opposite numbers! Pleased to meet you and all that!” he said cheerfully as we shook hands.

Harry was looking puzzled. Arthur explained, “Harry, sorry, forgot to mention – Ryan is from the United States Department of Magic.”

Harry looked at me with new interest. “Oh – right, that does explain things a bit.”

“You're working for the Ministry now, aren't you?” I asked him.

“Yes, I'm helping out. I'm joining the Aurors, actually, as soon as we get things sorted. What is it you do for your Department?”

I took a deep breath. “Well, let me put it this way. Four weeks ago I was the newest and most junior member of the Federal Bureau of Aurors. Four _days_ ago I was Executive Officer of what was left of the Bureau, trying to pick up the pieces. As of _three_ days ago, I'm the new Undersecretary for Foreign Wizarding Relations.” Harry, Molly, and Bill were all looking at me, their eyebrows dancing with their hairlines. “And believe me,” I added earnestly, “I'm a whole lot more surprised than you are!”

“What in the world happened?” Bill was the first to find his voice.

“If you don't mind, I'd kind of like to wait and answer that after the Minister for Magic gets here.”

“Oh – right. Save you telling it all twice, wouldn't it?”

“Yeah. I mean, we've got a couple of whole countries here that are trying to get back together and it's a long--”

“Ahhhhh! At last!” A deep, resonant voice, heavy with relief, cut through the conversation and we all turned to watch the United Kingdom's Minister for Magic emerge from the fireplace, swatting at his purple robes. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and completely bald, with a gold hoop-style earring in his left ear and a beautifully embroidered flat pillbox hat. His eyes looked tired, but alert, and his strong face was a rich, dark brown. “Got away early,” he said, looking down at the hem of his robe as he shook off a bit of soot. “The Hogwarts Board finally agreed that I did not, after all, need to be present as they discussed the books to be required for --” He stopped as he looked up and saw me.

“Minister,” Arthur said with smooth formality, stepping forward, “Allow me to present Mr. Ryan Jenkins, who comes to us from the United States Department of Magic. Mr. Jenkins, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Acting Minister for Magic.”

I bowed. Shacklebolt returned it and stepped forward, holding out a large hand which enveloped mine. “Welcome to the United Kingdom, Mr. Jenkins. Welcome indeed!”

“Thank you, Mr. Minister. May I present my credentials?”

“Yes, of course.” Everybody watched as I took out the red leather case and handed him the scroll. He used the same charm Arthur had, watching the eagle's flight intently and nodding slowly as it flew to the wall and vanished. Then he read it through, examining it minutely front and back, caused it to re-wrap itself, handed it back, and smiled. “I took the precaution of doing a little research on American diplomatic documents after I got Arthur's owl. I accept your credentials with great pleasure, despite the fact that you don't look any older than Harry here. You must certainly be the youngest undersecretary in American history.”

“Yes sir, I suppose I am. I have one other – credential, sir, if I may show it to you now?”

He nodded, and his eyes widened in surprise as I created the display screen and the recording of Admiral Blackstone began. There was complete silence as it played, and then everyone's eyes turned to the Minister. “I have been wondering about this. It seems you have quite a tale to tell – as do we. May I suggest that we postpone the details, however, until after dinner? I'm completely famished. First, though, we must correct a small diplomatic irregularity.” I was suddenly worried, but he grinned. “I see everyone has a butterbeer but me!”

*************


	5. The Burrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan begins to learn what happened in England, and tells Harry, the Weasleys, and Kingsley Shacklebolt a lot more about what happened in America. The process of re-establishing British-American relations in the Wizarding world gets off to a good start.

Dinner was delicious. We sat around a long table which just happened to be exactly the right size for the number of people sitting on it. Ginny raised her wand (after an unsuccessfully surreptitious nod from Molly) and an enormous steaming copper cauldron, followed by a precisely-spaced line of loaves, wafted out of the kitchen and settled down on the table. A group of spoons in a V formation, led by a large ladle, came hurtling after them, halted upright in the air over the table, bowed, and clattered down in front of each place. The ladle spun like a top and did a swan dive into the cauldron. We all applauded, Molly beamed, Ginny blushed, and Harry kissed her.

Lamb stew, thick with chunks of meat, lots of vegetables, and rich brown gravy, was served in an amazing collection of different china bowls which grew as you filled them, with mounds of butter for the endless loaves of fresh-baked bread. I found myself seated between Harry and the Minister, and the conversation quickly turned to Quidditch. I'd always preferred the older game, although Quadpot was way more popular in America; Quidditch seemed more complex and challenging, and anyway I really didn't much like a game with exploding Quaffles.

When he asked, I told Harry I'd played various positions, but did best as a Chaser. He, several people made it clear, had been an outstanding Seeker on his “House team,” and when that confused me, everyone jumped in to explain the four Houses at Hogwarts.

“I see. That makes a lot of sense, actually, since you only have the one Wizarding school here in Britain.”

“You have more than one, then? How many Wizard schools are there in America?” asked Ron.

“Five,” I replied, and everyone stopped eating for a moment and looked at me. Their surprise reminded me again of the gap that had grown between our cultures, and I started to explain. “Let's see, on the West Coast there's California Wizarding University, they have their main campus in Los Angeles, but CalWiz also has a smaller branch in Berkeley, and its library and Magical Studies Institute inside Mount Shasta – but it all still counts as one. Down South, there's Loomoo, Louisiana Magique University, in the bayous near New Orleans – Muggles just see a swamp, of course! On the East Coast, there are two: the United States Academy of Magic up in Salem--”

“Excuse me,” put in Kingsley, “but I thought that was called the Salem School or something like that.”

“It started out as the Salem School for Witches, and there was a Salem Academy for Wizards, but they combined the two and changed the name to U-sam – that's what we say, mostly – back in the 40s, during the War. The other eastern school is Muva, the Magical University of Virginia, near Charlottesville. And the fifth one is in the Midwest, that's my alma mater, Indiana Wizarding University, in Bloomington.”

“Called 'eye-woo' I suppose?” asked George.

“Right the first time!”

“Why haven't we heard of these places?” asked Hermione – then, realizing that the question needed either a very long answer or none, she quickly added “What's it like in Bloomington?”

“Beautiful country there, low rolling hills, lots of trees. Some amazing caves. It's a really magical place. A lot of important Tibetan Wizards came there after they were forced out of their own country forty years ago, they say it's very special. It's a major college town for Muggles too, and just full of the most astonishing people.”

By the time we were using bits of bread to sop up the last of the gravy in our bowls, I was comfortably on a first-name basis with the Minister for Magic, which seemed like a pretty decent achievement for a brand-new diplomat. “It certainly seems there's quite a lot of information our two countries need to exchange, Ryan,” observed Kingsley. When I nodded, solemnly but vigorously, he went on, “You need to learn what happened here – the story of Lord Voldemort and and our recent and not-so-recent troubles. We need to learn what happened in the United States, and how that was connected to what was going on in this country. Now if you want to find out what happened here in Britain over the last 20 years or so, the best way would be for you to simply stay here at the Burrow, and talk to Harry, and all the Weasleys. There are others you will undoubtedly want to speak with, but the most important things that happened during that period mostly happened to these people sitting around this table. This group here has more of that story – and more accurately! – than you will find anywhere else in this country.”

It felt like the bottom dropped out, somehow. I looked around at the unsmiling faces, ending with Harry, sitting next to me on the other side. His head was tilted to one side and his eyes were looking off into the distance. I opened my mouth and closed it. I couldn't speak for a moment. They waited, and finally I said, “The thing is, we've got to know what happened. All we have is a bunch of rumors, and reports we're not sure we can trust. And – I mean – the Secretary of Magic sent me over here because he thought I could find out. But now that it looks like I can, I don't want – well, look. What happened to us was really bad. But what happened to you, over here....must have been horrible. Much, much worse. I hate the thought of reminding you of all that.” I was looking at George, and glanced at Molly; their faces were immobile. “There must be lots of people who can tell me what I need to know. After all, it doesn't matter to me where I get the information as long as it's accurate...”

“It's all right, mate, we'll tell you.” Harry had put his hand on my shoulder, now he squeezed briefly, took it off, and we looked each other in the eye. “ 'Preciate your consideration and all that, but I'm willing, and I'll bet the others'll rally round as well. It'll help, you see. Honestly. It's all still fresh in the mind, but we've been avoiding talking to each other about – some things – for just that very reason. It's – difficult. But we need to do it, and move on. It's just that – well, sometimes we Brits need just a little bit of encouragement to let things out.” His wry tone on the last sentence raised affectionate chuckles around the table.

Kingsley spoke up, very seriously. “You will all have to decide for yourselves what to tell, of course. But from the Ministry's point of view, I can't think of anything we would want to conceal from the Americans. And all of you, please do understand that this is only a request, and entirely voluntary. But the Ministry – your country, in fact, when all is said and done – does very much want a full and complete exchange of information with the United States.” He turned to me. “I think it's the right way, in fact the only way, to begin reviving our Special Relationship.”

I inhaled sharply. “So you _do_ want a Special Relationship in the Wizarding world too! I thought so. Secretary Blackstone said he hoped so, when he told me about it. They barely mentioned the subject of a “special relationship” when I was in school, you know; we were taught that it was just something that happened during the War, and came to an end soon after, because the British Wizards didn't want to continue.” I looked at Hermione. “What did they teach about this in History classes at Hogwarts?”

Hermione didn't answer; she turned pink. Ron snorted, looked down, and looked up at me with a crooked grin. “Sorry mate, if Hermione doesn't know, nobody does.”

I realized everyone around the table was looking uncomfortable. “Did Voldemort or somebody get it removed from your history lessons too?”

Kingsley Shacklebolt started to chuckle, and it spread around the table. Even Hermione had to join in, although she was still blushing. Bill said, “You, too, Dad? Mum?” and when Arthur and Molly both nodded vigorously, their children (and Harry) laughed aloud. Kingsley joined in, and I did too, just for the fun of it. George called out, “You-Know-Who didn't need to worry about Hogwarts on this one!” and everybody laughed even louder. When he ran down to chuckles, Ron explained, “You see, it's just that our History of Magic class at Hogwarts was the single most boring class in the whole school.”

“In the whole country, you mean – perhaps the whole Western Hemisphere!” Kingsley's crack got a fresh gale of laughter.

“Dear old Professor Binns, hasn't altered a word in his lectures for 75 years.” Molly's voice held a note of fondness under her amusement.

“Bore you to death, even telling about the most ferocious and amazing battle you can imagine.” agreed Arthur, shaking his head. “He's the only ghost on the faculty, and there doesn't seem to be any prospect at all of his retiring some day.”

“I always thought History could be a very interesting subject,” put in Hermione, “but everybody chucks his class as soon as they can decently do so, and I can't blame them since I did too.”

Arthur stood up. “Tell you what, let's stretch our legs a bit, clear the table and all that, and move this discussion into the living room, what do you say?” He got general assent and we all pushed our chairs back. Molly shooed me away when I tried to help with the dishes. “As if I would! You're a guest, and besides, you have diplomatic immunity from chores! Ron, George, bring the cauldron, and Ginny, do the butter if you would please...”

A little while later we were all settled in the comfortable living room, with coffee or tea or hot chocolate from the sideboard. Molly had put out a plate of little creme-filled pumpkin cakes she called “Pinkies,” “...just for filling up the cracks, you understand.”

“Ryan,” Kingsley began, “You'll have plenty of time to find out the British story, but it strikes me that this is a very good opportunity for us to begin hearing the American side of things, if you'd like to tell it.”

“I would, very much. The the Secretary of Magic has charged me to tell you something that actually continues our discussion at the table. He regards the Special Relationship with Britain as still in effect. After all, that relationship is, and has been, strongly maintained in the Muggle world; it seems that it was deliberately subverted in the world of Magic, and communication between Wizards – and Witches! – in America with their counterparts in Britain has been discouraged, not to say prevented, for a long time. We need to turn that around.”

“Agreed.”

“Mr. Minister – everybody – the first thing Secretary Blackstone asked me to do when I met the right people....and I think I have!....was to tell you that when you saved yourselves, you saved us, too. You couldn't have known it, but you did. There's really no way to thank you, but we're going to try anyway.” Harry was looking at me with a peculiar expression; everyone else seemed to be looking at Harry. But I couldn't stop now, I'd come to the hard part. “And I have to tell you this, before anything else: the United States Department of Magic, and our whole Wizarding community, owes you – owes everyone in the British Wizarding world – an apology so profound we cannot express it adequately. The Secretary’s very words. You see, there _was_ a very definite understanding between the British and American Wizarding communities – between the Ministry and the Department, formally. If you got in trouble over here, or another dark Wizard arose like Grindelwald, we were supposed to come and help. We _promised_ to come and help.” I raised my hands and let them fall back helplessly. “And we didn't. We're embarrassed, we're humiliated, and we're very, very sorry.”

Kingsley looked straight at me. “I have two reactions to that. The first is, thank you. Very much. We deeply appreciate what you've just said. And the second is,” he leaned forward toward me, “bosh! It seems we've all been caught up in the schemes of a highly intelligent, as well as viciously criminal, foe. What you didn't know, you couldn't help with, and if there were failures, they must be shared on both sides of the Atlantic. Tell me something. When I got Arthur's owl today, I just had a quick glance over some of the American files. They were much less complete than I had expected to find, but I did notice that your, uh, former Secretary, Sylvester Koch Parboil, was posted over here for a time, starting in 1972. Do you think that has something to do with your story?”

“Yes, we think it does. And, ah, for the record, he pronounced his middle name 'cook' instead of 'kotch.' It looks to us like Slimy – I mean former Secretary--”

“Slimy Parboil?” Kingsley grinned. “Slimy _Cook_ Parboil! Ha! I quite like it. And don't worry about using that sort of nickname. Wait till you hear what people were calling Dolores Umbridge! But go on.”

“We think Voldemort recruited him over here, somewhere about that time. And we think it was a genuine recruitment, not a magical compulsion of some sort. Slimy was friends with some seriously unscrupulous people, both Wizards and Muggles, and a bunch of them got sort of caught with their hands in the cookie jar in 1974, and got a pretty good beating-up, politically speaking. He'd been away, and couldn't be tied to the hanky-panky at home directly, but he was recalled and started working his way up in the Department. The decline in our Special Relationship dates from about that time, and the impetus for it did appear to us to be coming from Britain – but it now it looks like it came through Slimy Parboil.”

I sipped from my cup, which was filled with a mixture of half coffee and half chocolate, an American commonplace which had raised eyebrows when I poured it. “Back in America he worked in the Foreign Wizarding Relations section, and the Personnel Office, which offered him plenty of opportunity to work against relations with Britain, especially if he was taking a long-term approach, which we think he definitely was.”

“Voldemort thought he was going to be immortal,” said Kingsley, nodding, “and used the promise of immortality as bait to lure his followers, so that fits well enough.”

“Secretary Blackstone figures that Slimy was in effective control of much of the Department by 1980. At the time, he was busy being _Admiral_ Blackstone, but he smelled a rat. He nearly asked for early retirement so he could look into what was going on. Then, in 1981, it all seemed to stop. Parboil took a leave of absence at that time – the records say it was for 'family reasons' – and Admiral Blackstone decided to finish his naval career as scheduled, retiring in 1985.” I turned to Harry. “1981. That must have been a result of – of what happened to you, Harry.”

“Was Parboil getting some kind of magical power, as well as information and instructions, from Voldemort, do you think?” Harry was frowning.

“Actually, yes, we have considered that. It would explain a lot. But we can't prove it now that he's dead, and how Voldemort could send magic across the Atlantic is a mystery.”

“He was a very adept Wizard,” Hermione pointed out, “and he had studied a lot of things decent people wouldn't touch. If a PortKey can get across the ocean, there might be some way...”

Bill spoke up. “At any rate, he had a definite focus in America in this Parboil fellow. Having a focus, especially a sentient and _willing_ focus, makes a huge difference when you're working at a distance.”

“Something you learned working at Gringotts?” I asked. Bill smiled and made the old “zip the lip” gesture. I nodded at him and continued, “Anyway, an old friend of Admiral Blackstone's had been commanding the U.S. Wizarding Marines, and he retired in '85. Blackstone stepped into the job as his replacement.”

“Didn't know you had military Wizards,” said Arthur thoughtfully. “We never have, not as a unit. Of course, over the years, some Wizards have served in our Muggle military, individually, and under cover of course.”

“Well, up until that point the Marines were only a small ceremonial outfit. They just did sentry duty, escorted visiting Wizard dignitaries on official visits, and marched on Franklin's Birthday and the Fourth of July, that sort of thing. They were famous for spit-and-polish, but hadn't ever actually fought anywhere. Blackstone decided to change that, and started recruiting men and women who fulfilled all the requirements of the Muggle military, and then some. Set up a training school somewhere and got some serious combat equipment, and a teaching staff of Wizards and Witches who had Muggle military experience. He put up a false front, I guess you could say, as an old fuddy-duddy who was mostly interested in how well the Marines polished their belt buckles. Behind the scenes, though, he was training them in actual fighting techniques, some borrowed from the Muggles, some taken from Wizarding experience, and some invented as they went along.”

“He created a strike force, loyal to him, right under Parboil's nose!”

“That's right, Bill.”

“Frankly, Ryan,” Kingsley began in a very serious tone, “I'm not at all sure that this is a welcome development, in the long run. A Magical arms race could be disastrous.”

“Kingsley, just between us, I don't like it much either. But without them, we would still have a big problem.”

“Agreed. I will, however, want to discuss this with the Secretary.”

“Of course. Admiral Blackstone did all this most reluctantly, and I've been authorized to tell you – uh, it was 'for your ears only,' but if I can't trust this bunch I might as well go home – do keep it quiet, please – that he's planning to demobilize half the Marines as soon as possible, and probably take on some of those to re-staff the Department. But besides the military angle – and maybe more importantly – in 1987 Blackstone was also put in charge of the National Magical Research Association, which was no big deal back then, just overseeing the budget for a group of mostly-elderly scholars pecking away at old books. By that time, though, Parboil was an Undersecretary, a rising star at the Department.”

“And pursuing his own agenda, it would seem,” Kingsley observed. “Or did he expect Voldemort to come back, I wonder?”

“Another good question we'll never know the answer to, sir. Our best guess is that he thought he had gotten enough from his master to carve out his own career, and his efforts simply put him in an ideal position for Voldemort when he did return. When was that, actually?”

“Two years ago. 1996. In the spring. I was there when it happened,” said Harry softly. “I saw it. I saw him murder Cedric Diggory. It was – well, I'll tell you about it – later.”

“Yes,” said Shacklebolt, “don't put yourself through that now, Harry. The point is, I think, that Admiral Blackstone was never one of Parboil's people.”

“No way.” I was almost savagely definite.

“Exactly. And if Parboil saw him as any sort of potential threat, he was at least shuffled off to a couple of minor, ineffectual appointments that would keep him busy doing things that could not interfere with Parboil's plans. Or so he thought.”

“Right. And jeez-louise, was he ever _wrong_! Blackstone told me some of the story, but there's a lot I still don't know. He was convinced that Slimy was up to no good – to put it mildly – but he couldn't _use_ the Marines for a long time, for two reasons. First, he couldn't be sure he'd get everybody. Parboil's tentacles had started to spread throughout the Department, and around the country. Taking out Slimy and the people right around him – even if he wasn't charged with treason or insurrection or something – would have left God knows how many dark Wizards to escape and go underground. And second, what he was doing with the Research Association looked like it might turn out to be a game-changer.”

“Were those the people who started working with _computers?_ ” Arthur asked eagerly. Molly's brow suddenly furrowed.

“Well, actually, quite a few Wizards and Witches – mostly young ones – started doing that independently, as far back as the 1980s, and began to share their knowledge. But it was sort of a magic-geek thing, not organized or directed; they worked out the necessary spells by trial and error. The people at the Research Association were the first to systematically investigate the field, and developed the first programmable spells – among other things. You see, Admiral Blackstone turned the National Magical Research Association into a major organization, again undercover. He left the original group of rather elderly scholars in place, publicly generating voluminous and mostly meaningless reports, and that's all the Department (and Slimy Parboil) ever saw. Then he built and staffed a whole research and development lab and...”

“Hold on a minute, Ryan,” Bill spoke up. “Admiral Blackstone was hiring all these people – buildings, equipment – did I understand you to say he enlarged the Wizarding Marines as well?”

“Yes, he about doubled the size of the organization.”

“Didn't all this show up in the Department of Magic budget every year? How could he keep _that_ kind of expenditure secret?”

“Funny thing, I had the same question. But when I asked him, he just said 'I'll be glad to tell you – if you ever need to know.'”

“If you don't mind me speculating for a moment,” Bill said thoughtfully, “Secretary Blackstone, as he is now, was an Admiral in the Muggle Navy. Do you think he might have found a way to get funding from the US Muggle military budget?”

“The thought has crossed my mind. About a hundred fifty times, so far.”

“Yes. What he's spending would be the tiniest fraction of the amounts involved; easy enough to charge off, one place or another. Your Muggle government, over in the States, spends _huge_ amounts of money on their military every year – the goblins are well aware of it all.” He leaned back in his chair. “One morning in Egypt I saw an American Navy ship in the Med. A really big one with a flat deck, a 'Nimitz-class carrier' they call it. I don't know what a nimitz is, but the goblin who told me said it cost them a gigantic fortune to build.”

“Millions of Galleons, I'll bet, has to be!” put in Ron.

“Not even close, Ron.” Bill shook his head decisively. “In our money – let's see – according to old Snarledge, that ship cost about eight hundred and fifty million Galleons.”

Ron was speechless, but so was everyone else, until George said in a strangled voice, “Eight – hundred – fifty – _million_ – – _GALLEONS_ – – for _one ship_?”

I nodded; I had been doing some mental arithmetic. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” George sank back in his chair, a stupefied look on his face, and I shrugged. “I'm kind of up on this stuff 'cause I got interested in history when I was a kid, and, uh, my parents are Muggles, so I was raised in the Muggle world. Didn't know I was a Wizard till I turned eleven.”

“I have Muggle parents! They're dentists. And Harry was raised by Muggles, too!” Hermione surprised me as much as I think I surprised her.

“Later for that, Hermione, if you would, please.” Kingsley was refilling his cup at the sideboard, and I moved to join him. “I think we're getting off the track. You were telling us about Secretary Blackstone's research institution? By the way, I like this coffee and chocolate combination, thank you for the suggestion.”

“You're welcome. But now who's getting off the track?” He chuckled as we sat down and I continued. “He established a large laboratory and testing site not far from Washington, staffed with young Wizards and Witches he personally selected from the final years' classes at the various Wizarding schools. He told them of his fears and suspicions, swore them to secrecy, and asked them to come up with magical ways to surprise and overcome old Slimy and company. And they started to investigate ways of using Muggle technology in combination with Magic.”

“Oh, _no_! Not _that_ awful business!” Molly was aghast. “Nothing but trouble! Arthur's car could have _killed_ Ron and Harry in their second year!”

“Now, Molly,” began Arthur.

“Don't you 'now Molly' me, Arthur Weasley! Don't you remember that _lawnmower_ you brought home when Charlie was a baby?” (Harry and I looked at each other.) “We had to replant the _entire_ garden! And those _poor little gnomes!”_ (As one, we looked away.) _“_ All over the side of the house. How many times has your tinkering with Muggle things nearly gotten you killed, or fired, or even thrown into _Azkaban_?”

Nobody actually laughed, but everyone else was fighting for control too. I had to let Arthur hem and haw for a few moments, before I could safely say, “Wait a minute, Molly, I kinda think you've got it backwards. This isn't about trying to use Magic to make Muggle things work, it's about using Muggle ideas to make _Magic_ work better.” She gave me a very suspicious look, but closed her mouth firmly and sat back, glowering. “What I'm talking about works by magic, and is guarded by tons of safety spells. Here – let me give you a quick little demonstration.”

She was sitting with her arms crossed. I took my computer and keyboard out of my pocket and brought them back to full size. Bill said, “That's a computer, sure enough! Muggle banks use those things, I've seen them. But don't you need one of those big monitor-screen things?”

“Got something better.” I drew a great big six-foot display screen, where everyone could see it, and connected it up. Then I had the computer position itself underneath the screen, and sat down with the keyboard on my lap. A pumpkin with a bite out of it appeared on the screen, and gave way to my desktop, which I had quickly re-set to a picture of three little kittens, tumbling about and playing. All this magic (and the kittens) seemed to have relaxed Molly a bit.

“For this demonstration I'm going to have to use some electricity to interface with the Muggles. But my battery is down pretty low, I'd really like to do a quick recharge. Uh – you don't have electric service here, do you?”

“No,” said Arthur sadly, “although we – well, anyway – no, we don't.”

“Not a problem. Would you mind if I take a minute and go fly a kite?”

******************


	6. Wemail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan introduces Kingsley to Wizarding Email, and shows Harry and the Weasleys more about his computer, which works by magic instead of electricity -- and how an experimental program can detect Black Magic (or "Dark Magic," as it's called in Britain).

Launching a kite with magic is just a matter of raising it up until the wind takes it. Muggles have to do all kinds of exertions, especially on a calm night, like this one was. There was no prospect of a storm, but there's always enough electricity floating around up in the air to charge a battery, and it's easy to collect if you have Dr. Franklin's Patented Electrical Fluid Attractor Charm on your kite. It's safe, too, even in a thunderstorm, if you have a large brass key hanging from the string, charged with Dr. Franklin's Patented Lightning-To-Ground Hex.

Seated again, I said, “Muggle computers today are often – usually, in fact – routinely connected to other computers, all over the world. This is called the internet. Wizarding computers can use the Muggle internet to send and receive data, by sort of piggybacking on the electricity they send flowing around. The Research Wizards call it “sorcerous heterodyning.” But the Wizarding information is all sent by magic, flows much faster than the electricity does, and Muggles simply can't detect it. One thing computers do is send and receive electronic mail, or e-mail; the MagicGeek community figured out how to do that even before the Research Association got involved, and with Magic, we call it Wizard E-Mail, or We-mail. It goes anywhere in the world, pretty much instantaneously, and doesn't cost a – a knut.”

“What, put the owls out of work? They won't like that,” objected Bill.

“Oh, no, we still use owls, and other birds, lots. You can't send packages by Wemail, and not everybody has a Wizarding computer. It is, though, completely secure and private from anybody, except a Witch or Wizard who is enough of a computer expert to hack into the communication-stream. That's another term to be aware of. Getting access to someone else's e-mail, or another computer, without permission is called 'hacking,' and when you do it with Magic it's Wizard-hacking, or Whacking. Now, let's see, last night I sent Secretary Blackstone a Wemail saying I'd arrived safely and would report further this evening, so I'd better keep my word and send him something, or he'll wonder what became of me.”

I opened up my Wemail program and started to type.  _ All is going well. Things are moving fast. I'm in conference now with Kingsley Shacklebolt, _ I stopped and looked up. “Did I spell that right?” When everybody nodded I continued, …  _ the new Minister for Magic, Harry Potter, and other important Wizards, and will report at length as soon as time permits. My credentials have been accepted and everyone is entirely friendly and forthcoming. Minister Shacklebolt has said they want a full and complete exchange of information. The Special Relationship is definitely in effect here. We are exchanging information, and I hope we can arrange personnel exchanges in the near future. Hope you and all are well and making progress. Jenkins, UFWR USDOM. _

My typing had gotten their attention. I do about 75 words per minute on a keyboard. “Wow – you type  _ really _ fast!” Hermione said admiringly. “And the letters are so beautifully formed, just like printing,” added Arthur, looking sideways at Molly. 

“I was ordered to send all my messages encrypted,” I went on, “since we didn't know if other dark Wizards were still running around over here, or how much they might know about Wemail. The Secretary gave me an encryption hex that I hope you won't mind if I don't pronounce aloud...”

I pointed my wand at the screen, and the message changed to  _ Hello darlings! We've been having glorious weather over here, although it does seem to rain a lot, and have been busy seeing all the sights. The gardens are simply lovely, and Westminster Hall was very impressive. Everyone here is very nice, although they seem to have a lot of trouble pronouncing things. We played a game of darts last night in a bar, which they call a “pub” over here, and I won, because one of my darts actually hit the target! Tomorrow we're going to Dover, which is supposed to be near the ocean. I'm thinking about getting some of those famous Dover Soles put on my flip-flops. We're going there to visit some people I haven't met, a Mr. & Mrs. Whitecliff. Give Mikey a kiss for me! Love, Emily. _

Several people snorted, and Ron let out, “Dover soles! The Whitecliffs of Dover! Crikey!”

“I'm sorry,” I said sheepishly. “The encryption spell is directly between our two wands only, so Secretary Blackstone's wand is the only one which can decrypt the message. My wand seems to keep putting in jokes for some reason.” George gave me a grin and a thumbs-up. “That's an old American joke, about a loudmouthed social-climbing braggart kind of guy telling about his recent trip to England. Somebody asks him if he and his wife saw the white cliffs of Dover, and he says 'See them! We had dinner with them!'”

Everyone groaned, and there was a faint answering groan from upstairs. That got a big laugh, and I looked startled. “Don't worry, mate,” chortled Ron, “that's just the ghoul. You won't see him, he lives in the attic.”

I looked up. “I didn't think it was  _ that _ bad!” – and the ghoul groaned again, which set us off once more. When we calmed down, I sent the Wemail and started to demonstrate the computer. I created four audio lines terminated with transducer spells, spaced around the room, and played some music; surround sound seemed to be new to them. I showed some movie clips and pictures, both Wizarding and Muggle types. That reminded me of something.

“Say, I've got a picture here I'd like you to see, in case any of you might know what it means. It's a little gruesome, though. When Slimy Parboil was killed, one of the Marines noticed a mark on his arm that was fading out. He took a picture of it – here...” I used my wand.

When the picture of the blood-splashed arm came up on the display, everyone gasped and went rigid. Molly and Ginny stifled screams, and Kingsley said flatly, “The Dark Mark. We know it all too well. This man was a Death Eater.” 

“Death Eaters were members of Voldemort's inner circle, his most trusted and most powerful people,” said Harry slowly. “I never thought that there might be any Death Eaters in other countries.”

“That's really scary, actually,” said Hermione.

“Ryan, have you heard any – indications, any talk or anything like that – about this Parboil fellow having connections with any other country, besides Britain I mean?”

“Harry, I don't know. Someone might have, and I didn't hear about it because all my mission briefings were focused on this country. Or someone might turn up something like that any time. I can send a Wemail, though, and ask.”

“Yes, if you would please. I just...” Harry suddenly looked up at the Minister for Magic and seemed to shrink a bit. “Sorry, Kingsley. Talking out of turn, I suppose.”

“No you weren't. You're absolutely right.” Shacklebolt transferred his gaze to me. “By all means, see what you can find out.”

At that moment the sound system played back the sound of a sheet-steel rural mailbox being opened and closed, followed by a Tibetan temple bell. “Hey, I've got mail.” I switched programs and looked at the header. “Secretary Blackstone's still in his office.”

Kingsley's eyebrows were way up. “An official answer from Washington DC in what – fifteen minutes? Amazing. I can see we're going to have to find out about this...Wemail.”

The message came up as a long complaint about how little Mikey was teething, along with various odd references to other imaginary family members. I decrypted it and we all read it together.

_ To Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt: Most cordial greetings, and I would like to respectfully suggest that you and I should meet personally as soon as can be arranged.  _ (“Excellent!” said Kingsley.) _ I cannot leave the country just now, but you would be welcomed with open arms if you can travel here. However, I fully recognize that you are probably also extremely busy, and we will have to work toward setting a date. In the meantime, we will gladly welcome any representatives you wish to send to Washington, and hope you will do so as soon as possible. _

_To Undersecretary Jenkins: Congratulations on such swift progress. Well done. Continue exchanging information and developing relations. I am arranging to send you more help, probably arriving at Heathrow on Thursday. Watch for Wemail confirmation. When he arrives, put him in the picture and introduce him. You will then come home via TAPKey and make your report. You may bring anyone with you that the British wish to send, or that your judgment indicates should come. Things are going as well as can be expected here, not as fast as I would like but we're making gains. Blackstone._

“Congratulations, Ryan,” said Harry with a smile. “I think your boss is pleased with you.”

I was saved from trying to think up a suitable reply (“Well, gee, I did have two whole days to work on it” seemed like a little much) when the mailbox sounded again. “There's more!” This time it was a one-line message,  _ Dear Emily, little Mikey is teething nicely on your favorite pocket watch. Thought you'd like to know. Love, Hildegard. _ When I applied the decryption spell, it read  _ To Jenkins. When you return, consider having the research team update your wand. That Whitecliffs of Dover joke is older than Stonehenge. _

That brought the house down, and Kingsley said “I'm going to like that man!” He looked at me. “Since he knows I'm here, I should certainly send a reply. But I do not yet know how to do so on your – computer. Could you write as I dictate?”

“No sweat! I go pretty fast.”

“Indeed. And I am used to dictating. If you get behind, just say so.”

“Yes sir.” I poised my fingers on the keyboard, and Kingsley began:

“Begin.  _ To-- _ ” He stopped suddenly and asked, “What is Secretary Blackstone's first name?”

“Alistair.”

“Thank you. Begin again.  _ To Alistair Blackstone, Interim United States Secretary of Magic, warmest and most cordial greetings. Your message has delighted all of us, as has your Undersecretary for Foreign Wizarding Relations, Mr. Ryan Jenkins. I look forward very much to meeting you in person in the near future, but like you, I have too many urgent responsibilities at the present time to justify any extended travel. We will prepare a new set of Trans Atlantic Portkeys immediately, so that regular travel and communication can resume between our countries. I will designate a small initial group of representatives to accompany him, and would strongly _ – no, make that 'respectfully' –  _ respectfully suggest that you send Mr. Jenkins back to Britain after he has made his reports. He has made many friends here very quickly, and I can think of no one better able to re-establish our Special Relationship on a firm and lasting basis. Our meeting tonight will end shortly, but I hope to begin using Wemail myself in the near future, and believe this amazingly quick method of communication, which is new to us here _ – no, strike that last bit, um, from 'method of communication' – Got that? Right. –  _ will be of great help in cementing relations between our two organizations, as well as in arranging a suitable time for you and I to meet. In closing, I would like to thank you again, on behalf of the entire Ministry, for reaching out to us in such a friendly way. Most sincerely, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Acting Minister for Magic for the United Kingdom.” _

What I had typed hung on the screen, and Kingsley read it over carefully, making a few small changes. “Can anyone think of anything I should add?” he asked, looking round the room. Nobody could. He nodded at me, and I applied the encryption: it became a rambling letter from “Elmer” largely concerned with the details of growing hibiscus and rhododendron plants, and I sent it off.

Then he got up and stretched. “Listen, everybody, it's getting late. There's still a great deal to discuss, but we won't help things by staying up all night. At least we won't help me! I'm going home. In the morning...” He rubbed his brow. “In the morning we have a meeting at nine. Arthur, Bill, I will need you for that. We'll see how far Percy has got with those financial summaries, poor fellow. He's done wonders, really, but Merlin's undershirt! What a mess we found.” Turning to me, he added, “Ryan, it has been wonderful to meet you, and that's not merely diplomacy. You seem to have brought laughter with you, and we all could use more of that. May I assume you're going to fall in with my suggestion and stay here while you learn our recent history?”

“I think I'd love to stay here at any time, and right now your suggestion makes perfect sense.”

“Excellent. But we must push things along. Would you please come to my office at the Ministry tomorrow – let us say – one p.m.?”

“Gladly, but ahh...I don't actually...”

“Of course. Harry, would you bring him?”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Good. You don't need to come in til then. And now, good night, everyone.” We all echoed that, as he stepped to the fireplace and took a pinch of floo powder out of a flowerpot sitting on the mantle. With a flare of green flame, he was gone.

Of course we stayed up for hours, anyway.

Arthur, Molly, George and Bill excused themselves fairly quickly, leaving Ron, Hermione, Harry, Ginny and me. “Harry,” I said conversationally, “I didn't know you were raised in the Muggle world. We heard both your parents were Wizards, and Dumbledore placed you with relatives...”

“Well, that's true, actually, he did. My mother came from a Muggle family, though, and it's her sister – my Aunt Petunia – and her husband that I lived with.”

Before I could ask anything else, Ron spoke up. “It's a bit of a rum story, mate. They weren't very good to Harry. They were – I mean – if you don't need to know...”

“Oh, sorry. No. Not important, none of that – unless you think it is.”

“Right,” said Harry, looking rather relieved. “You said you didn't know you were a Wizard, either, until you turned eleven?”

“That's right. But I did have some weird stuff happen, a few times, when I was little.”

“So did I.”

“Me too,” put in Hermione. “Ryan, I hope you don't mind my asking, but – how old are you?”

“Twenty-one.” I looked at them. “And a half. And you guys are what, seventeen?”

“Just about. I'm a year younger,” said Ginny.

Harry continued his thought. “When I turned eleven, Hogwarts sent someone to tell me about it on my birthday. How does it work in America?”

“On your birthday, yup, same deal. It was a Wizard and a Witch from the Kentucky State Department of Magic that came to our house. We were living in Beaver Lick at the time.”

Ron had a sudden coughing fit just at this point, and Hermione pounded him on the back.

“My dad worked at a radio station across the river in Cincinnati. I went to the regular Muggle public school, and I was already in seventh grade when they came. My birthday's in November, so I had a year of Junior High School with Muggle kids.”

“Oh. Mine's at the end of July, so I started right away that fall. Did you have a computer as a kid, then?”

“Yeah, but a really simple Muggle one. Couldn't do much but play some really dumb games, although you could write papers. The internet and email and stuff came later. I took typing in seventh grade, and that helped a lot. When I went off to I-WU, I met some kids who were MagicGeeks, got really interested, persuaded Mom and Dad to get me a really nice computer – well, nice for that time – and they helped me get it working magically and then I sort of – souped it up.”

“Were you sent there by the Department, or did you have a choice?” Hermione wanted to know.

“Well, each school does serve a region, and they have to take any Wizard or Witch from that area, and we lived in the I-WU region. But you're allowed to choose, or even transfer later on, if they have an opening and are willing to take you. I thought it would be really cool to go to CalWiz. Los Angeles has, like, Hollywood, and Disneyland and stuff – or maybe Berkeley, there were lots of great stories about that place, but I would have had to wait at least another year, and I mean, come on,  _ wait _ ? To start learning how to do  _ Magic _ ? No way!”

They all grinned and nodded. “Too right!” said Ron. “I'm still getting used to the idea of five different Wizard schools, you know? But I guess America's a really big place.”

“Yeah, it is, and I guess that kinda shapes our outlook. Hey, let me show you something on that – I've got a program...” I used the wand and keyboard for a few moments, and a map of the British Isles came up on the display. “OK, here's your country, and here...” A map of the USA came up beside it in the same scale. “Is mine. Bloomington, Indiana, where I live, is right about here, in the middle.” With my wand, I lit up the dot on the map, and then picked the British Isles out of the display. “If you just overlay the two maps, you can see the difference. Let me turn the UK on its side for a moment – the distance between New York City and Bloomington is just about the same as the distance between – let's, see, Land's End and – the Orkney Islands.”

Of course that's all the way up from the very bottom of the island to the top, the longest distance in Britain. They were impressed, and Ron whistled. “And that's only about a third of the way across! I didn't realize America was three times as big as Britain.”

“Well, it depends on how you figure it. Here, let me show you something else. If you take all the land in the British Isles and sort of squeeze it into a nice square shape...” The British Isles became a dark square with the British flag on it. “And do the same to the US...” The irregular outline became an empty white square. “...and that's including Alaska, up here, and Hawaii – there. Now, let's find out how many Britains it takes to fill up America.” The British square replicated itself and started filling up the US square. I brought up a digital counter beside it. The counter stopped at 40.255.

Ron's mouth dropped open. “So the United States is  _ forty times _ bigger than the British Isles?”

“Yeah – in land area, but...here...” I separated the maps again and brought up their statistics. “Our population's only about five times bigger than yours, so five schools works out about the same.”

“That computer is really amazing. It's a wonderful way to handle information,” observed Hermione, “I've used computers too, but I've never seen one that could do that, or worked so quickly, or that has such a beautiful display, either.”

“And the best part is that it works by magic!” put in Harry. “I fooled around with Dudley's computer a few times – he's my cousin. Muggle computing has a lot more steps, and – it's just more complicated, and took me forever to do anything. All you do is type a little and use your wand, even from across the room. It's just massively cool.”

“Defo!” echoed Ron.

I nodded. “With magic, you can do things with computers that Muggles just can't – at least not yet. But – Harry – listen, your Auror department is going to want one of these. Before I came over, I had most of a whole day at the Magcial Research labs, and they gave me some new programed spells they're working on, including one that detects dark magic and shows it on a map. They call it the Sniffer.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ummm...uh, who's in charge of your Aurors now?”

“Actually, nobody, just at present. Kingsley would be, except he's got this other job now. A lot of our staff were killed, or are in hospital, and way too many turned out to be Death Eaters. It's fallen to me and a couple of others to try and salvage what we could, keep things going – Kingsley comes down and helps when he can, but he hasn't named a new head yet.”

“Then you're the best person to show this to. All right.” I picked up my wand and a thought struck me. I looked around at the others and gathered their eyes. “Look, this is secret, OK? More than just 'confidential.' I don't think Harry's new boss, whoever he turns out to be, is going to like it if word of this gets out.”

They all nodded and I started loading the program. “Besides, it isn't really ready yet. This is what they call a 'beta test' version of the spell. They give it out to a few trusted people to go out and try, and then report back how it works, especially if something doesn't work right or needs changing. There. Now this thing is supposed to have a radius of over a hundred miles, but works better on shorter distances. It detects where we are – and scans around for – let's tell it – say, a thirty-mile radius.” A map of the area appeared on the screen, with a little blue Wizard's hat in the center, labeled  **The Burrow** . 

It showed a couple of villages, and several isolated dwellings. Ron and Ginny got excited, identifying a couple of those as Wizarding households which wouldn't show up on Muggle maps or photos. “Look – there's the Lovegoods' place,” said Ron, pointing with his wand.

“Now, watch this.” I pointed my wand at the DETECT button, which dipped and clicked. Instantly a number of symbols appeared on the map, glowing in various colors. I brought up the legend. “So black is the worst, black magic being done right at the moment. None of that around here, that's good! You can tell it to what to show and what to ignore, but right now it's showing all the magic – there's your concealment charm, and my kite – hey, I better not forget to bring that in! – and the wards around other magic households.”

“What's that – there?” Hermione's wand was pointing at an orange circle with a red center.

“That – is a a dark magic object.”

“Whoa!” said Ron. “That's old lady Waffler's place.”

“She's a nasty old Witch,” said Ginny. “I'm not a bit surprised she's got something she shouldn't. Keeps to herself. Dad went over to invite her to share the portkey if she wanted to go to the Quidditch World Cup, and she yelled at him – threatened to turn him into a flobberworm. I never would go near the place.”

“Can you tell what it is?” asked Harry.

“Maybe. Let's see. This is a good test, you know?” I tapped the symbol with my wand and a dialog box appeared which said  **Hand Of Glory** . 

“Well, that's pretty dodgy. I don't think it's quite illegal though, just to have one.” Harry frowned. “Is there anything else there?” I centered the display there and zoomed in, until the property filled the screen. We could see the outlines of the small house and some outbuildings. “Excellent!” he said. “Uh...purple, blue, green...those are OK....rather a lot of yellows, that's, um – potentially dangerous – what are those?”

I brought up labels with my wand. “Ingredients for potions, I think. Yes. Some are in the buildings, some are growing in the garden...nightshade...St. Templar's Wort...dried scarabs...”

“I'm quite sure you could make some really nasty things with those ingredients,” said Hermione thoughtfully, “but of course you can make some nasty things with perfectly ordinary ingredients that everyone has around the home. The point is, I think, that she's not doing anything like that now, is she?”  
“No. If anyone was actually practicing black magic – or dark magic, as you call it over here – the location would be flashing – the strobing red border, on the legend here – and any objects being used, or ingredients, if it was a potion, would be flashing too.”

“Now that...is...really....interesting.” Harry was studying the display intently. “I'd love to see what that would show at Malfoy Manor!”

“Yeah! Brilliant, Harry!” Ron was enthusiastic.

“You're absolutely right, Ryan, the Ministry simply has to have this. You should show it to Kingsley when we go to the Ministry tomorrow. And it wouldn't hurt a bit to have a look round London, now would it?”

“Cool. I definitely think getting this Wizardtech to you is a top priority. In fact, I can see right now that one of the things we're going to have to determine is just how much it will take – teaching and learning and practicing – to get typical people over here (like you guys, for instance) up to speed on this stuff. I think that process needs to begin as soon as possible. And while I'm here, well, you could help me a lot by testing it under various different conditions.”

“Excellent!” I think all four of them said it.

“All part of the job. But you know,” I began, and they looked at me as if afraid that I might have a reason to change my mind, “we haven't even mentioned the main reason you need to get into this stuff.”

They looked puzzled. 

“Sooner or later, any dark Wizards or shady characters you've got running around over here are going to find out about it. And start using it. Parboil and company were just starting to use Wemail when they crapped out, so we've almost certainly got some black Wizards with at least a little MagicTech-savvy out there now. Muggles are already having a lot of trouble with crooks and swindlers and such on their internet. Not to mention other things that might be coming down the pike when you start mixing Magic with Muggle knowledge. I'm afraid it's like one of those Genies you can never put back in the bottle after you've let them out. That's what we figure, in the Department, anyway. The only defense is simply to get there firstest, with the mostest.”

Now it was Harry's mouth which had dropped open, and they all stared at me with wide eyes.

********************


	7. The Ministry of Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After lunch at his house in Grimmauld Place, Harry takes Ryan to the Ministry of Magic for a surprisingly productive conference in Kingsley Shacklebolt's office. Ryan meets Percy Weasley, who's been tracking the flow of Death Eater money to - and from - America.

I slept in Charlie's room that night. It's a great bedroom, if you like dragons. They were everywhere on the walls and on the ceiling, in pictures and posters, and they all woke up and started roaring and belching flames when Ron showed me in.

“It's all right, mate, the flames aren't hot, just a bit warm, like. Here, watch this now,” he said, putting his hands on his hips. “All right you lot – SIT!”

All the dragons stopped making noise and sat back on their haunches.

“Now this here's Ryan, he's a friend of ours – a friend of  _ Charlie's _ . He's our guest, and he's going to sleep here tonight. You leave him be, you hear me? And do what he says! All right now, all of you, lay down.” The dragons all started to lay down, except for one big green fellow beside the window, who sneezed. A gout of fire enveloped the curtains. “None of that, now, come on, lay down. That's it.” Ron turned to me. “Charlie can get 'em to roll over, but it's not good for their wings. Will you be OK, d'you think?”

“Sure. This'll be fine. Thanks, Ron!”

“No worries. G'night!”

And it was. I slept like a log from the petrified forest. In the morning I found Molly and Ginny in the kitchen; as we greeted each other, a whisk started up in a copper bowl, and a pan on the stove began to sizzle. I smelled bacon.

“Breakfast in half a tick, dear, sit down, won't you? Here's coffee, and a nice glass of pumpkin juice. Everyone's off to the Ministry, and George and Ron have gone down to the shop.”

“Harry sent an owl,” said Ginny, “asking if you'd care to come to his place this morning and talk. You could go on to the Ministry from there. I can take you over, after you've eaten, but I'll just come right back and leave you to it. Got to help Mum with the laundry.” From the sidelong glance she gave Molly, I guessed that Molly needed companionship more than help. Losing a child must be unbelievably hard. If we're lucky, we all join the Orphans' Club sooner or later.

“That sounds great. I've been hoping for a chance to have a good talk with Harry. Where is his place, exactly? Is he still living with his relatives?”

“Oh, no! Oh, my stars!” Molly put a great steaming plate of bacon and eggs in front of me, and a mound of toast hurtled on to another plate. “Those great lumps? I should say not! He's got his own house now, in town.”

“He inherited it from his Godfather,” said Ginny, “and it's getting to be really nice, now that Kreacher's cleaning it up. It's totally protected, too, unplottable and everything – even Wizards can't find it unless they know exactly how. The Order of the Phoenix used it for their headquarters when they were fighting You-Know-Who.”

Molly wouldn't let me help with the dishes again, so Ginny and I left. Harry's house was so well protected with spells, she said, that it had never been on the floo network at all until just recently, and even now could only be reached from a very few fireplaces. Following her example, I threw my floo powder into the fire, said very clearly “12 Grimmauld Place!” and stepped into the green flame. Before I knew it I had stopped spinning, and was looking out of a big old carved fireplace into an old-fashioned room, crowded with furniture and things, with a huge tapestry covering one wall. Ginny was being greeted by a very old-looking house elf, with a few white hairs and many wrinkles, dressed in full butler costume right out of the movies, striped pants, tailcoat, and spats on his bare feet. I thought he looked like a miniature (but very ugly) Arthur Treacher, and almost got the name right.

“Kreacher, this is Ryan Jenkins. He's a friend of ours from America.”

“Welcome, Ryan Jenkins. Kreacher has never met an American before. Do you speak English?” said the elf in a surprising bullfrog voice.

“Well, there's some debate about that, Kreacher, but I try. Nice outfit!” I added admiringly, and the elf drew himself up.

“Thank you, Ryan Jenkins. Harry Potter gave Kreacher these clothes, and Kreacher is a free elf. But Kreacher knows when he is well situated. He served the Black family a hundred and sixty two years, last August, and now Kreacher serves Harry Potter.”

“Ginny!” Harry swept through the doorway, and called out without stopping, “Hi Ryan! – half a tick – first things first!”

“Always!” I called back, as they kissed. Presently, they surfaced again, and Harry and I shook hands. He turned back to Ginny and asked how Molly was doing.

“All right, I guess, but if she's alone for too long she's liable to start crying again. I really ought to be getting back.”

“Not without proper ceremony.” They looked at me. “Hey, I'm an Undersecretary, I know about this stuff.” They went back into each others' arms as I turned to look at the great tapestry, which seemed to be an elaborate family tree. Presently Ginny said, “Bye, Ryan!” and I turned around and said “Bye!” as she vanished in the fireplace.

Harry showed me around the house, which was even older and odder than I had thought, and told me about Sirius Black and his family. Sirius was his Godfather, having been a close friend of Harry's dad at Hogwarts, and seems to have been the “white sheep” of the family, as the rest of them seem to have been Voldemort sympathizers, if not actual Death Eaters. Then we sat down in the drawing room in front of the fireplace, and Kreacher brought in a pot of coffee and a large plate of sort of biscuit-muffin things they called scones, which were quite wonderful with butter and jam.

We talked for a long time, and I finally started to get a coherent idea of his story, and the story of Lord Voldemort. I'm not going to try and set it down here; it would probably take six or seven books to tell it all. The gist of it was, however, that Voldemort had not merely marked Harry as a baby, he had unwittingly turned him into a Horcrux. That was shocking enough, but he told me Voldemort actually created  _ six more _ Horcruxes! Never heard of anything even remotely like that; no wonder he thought he was going to live forever. And even more amazingly, except for one that Dumbledore found, Harry – and Ron, and Hermione, and another friend of theirs named Neville – had tracked down and destroyed  _ all _ of them. Including the one inside Harry – but I didn't understand that part very well. Harry didn't understand it completely either, so we just let it be.

As the tale unfolded, I went from being aghast to amazed to horrified to astonished to completely blown away. At one point he stopped and asked, “Do you know the Tales Of Beadle The Bard, over in the States?”

“I've heard of it, from friends. Even saw a copy once, but I didn't read it. Kids in Wizard families mostly get more modern books these days, like Doctor Sorce – you know, _The Cat On The Broom,_ _Purple Eggs And Ham,_ _Horton Hexes A Who_ , all that stuff? Some of my schoolmates knew the Beadle stories, kind of, the way at least some Muggle kids may have heard of Grimm's Fairy Tales.”

“Careful who you say that to over here, the fairies are starting to say it's a racist expression. But I get what you mean.” He had Kreacher bring his copy and asked me to read the story of the Deathly Hallows. I thought it was a typical allegorical tale, meant to teach children something (like always leaving a trail of something less edible than breadcrumbs when you go into the forest), but no. It turns out the Deathly Hallows were real, and Harry actually had found all three of them. Held them in his hands. Used their magic. One was now lost, and another hidden, but he left the room for a bit, and when he came back, he put the third one into my hands.

It was an invisibility cloak. I'd never seen one. It was incredible. It worked absolutely perfectly, and felt like the finest silk. I couldn't think of anything to say except lame banalities, like “this is the most amazing damn thing I've ever seen in my whole life.”

Kreacher served us lunch, sandwiches and a nice red ale, and then it was time to go to the Ministry. We took some floo powder out of an old snuffbox. Harry courteously let me go first, and I emerged into Buckingham Palace. Or maybe Versailles. Or even Xanadu. So I thought, but it was the right fireplace after all. Our Department of Magic building is truly a beautiful structure, and its ground-floor circular lobby is very impressive, but next to the Ministry of Magic, it's a trailer park down by the freight yards.

The place is beyond my power of description, really, but I'll give it a shot. The Atrium is enormous, with a floor of polished wood and, far above, a peacock-blue ceiling inlaid with golden symbols that moved, shining and sparkling. We emerged in the middle of a whole line of fireplaces, facing another whole line. People were coming out of the ones on our side, and lining up to enter the ones on the other. Innumerable bay windows, mostly lighted, lined the walls, floor after floor of them, going way up. The stonework was superb, and the various woods on the floor and walls fitted like a master cabinetmaker's dream. Harry had explained that the Ministry was deep under London.

“This is unbelievable. Except that it's real, I mean. Wow.” I walked forward, looking up with my mouth hanging open, feeling like a farmboy on his first visit to New York City. Harry stayed by my side, and lots of people waved to him, some bowed in his direction, but nobody approached us. We stopped in front of a large reflecting pool with a stone plinth rising out of it; the flat top of the plinth was empty.

“Used to be a golden statue standing there,” said Harry, “a fountain, but it got destroyed when we fought Voldemort and his Death Eaters here last year.” Harry had told me about that battle, the only time when Voldemort and Dumbledore dueled directly, neither being able to overcome the other. He went on, “When Voldemort took over, he had it replaced with a horrible ugly sculpture of a Wizard and a Witch grinding their power down on every living thing – as you'd expect, that got smashed, pretty much first thing after he went, and the pieces dumped in the ocean. Haven't decided yet what to put there now.”

The bottom of the pool sparkled with galleons, sickles, and knuts, and there was a golden plaque which said all proceeds went to “St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.” I took out a couple of galleons and tossed them into the water. “I made a wish. Hope that's all right.”

“Can't hurt, anyhow. What'd you wish for?”

“Peace. And healing. And friendship between our countries.”

“That's good. Here...” Harry took out a couple of galleons of his own. He closed his eyes for a moment, and they made a soft double splash. “Come on, we'd best get moving, it's nearly one.”

There was a great big set of golden gates at the far end –  _ solid _ gold, I think – with a security desk in front. A chunky, middle-aged Wizard with five-o'clock shadow and peacock-blue robes sat there and gave us a broad smile.

“Hallo, Harry, good to see you!”

“Hello, Jimmy. Ryan, this is Jimmy Weston-Boyce. He's got five Death Eaters to his credit.”

“Six now Harry, we finally got Lucretia Ramsbottom last night. Found her hiding in the drains under Battersea.”

“Good on you! Jimmy, this is Ryan Jenkins, Undersecretary for Foreign Wizarding Relations at the United States Department of Magic.”

“Ah, yes of course!” He stood up and bowed. “I've had word from the Minister, he's expecting you. But...” he frowned, “I haven't had instructions, I'll have to see your wand, please.”

“Perfectly all right, don't worry.” I handed him my wand and he measured it, put it on a set of golden scales, fussed with the counterweights for a moment, consulted some tables in a large, leather-bound book, and made a note on a piece of parchment.

“Fourteen and a quarter inches, American elm. Haven't seen one of those before. Very nice, sir!” He handed back my wand and I stowed it in my robe. “Far right lift, Harry, we've held it for you.”

“Thanks, Jimmy.”

The “lift” turned out to be an elevator, again made of gold. He led me down a short corridor with purple carpeting to a large, highly polished door of some fine-grained wood, which had the words “Minister For Magic” inlaid in gold above the round Ministry symbol. Inside, a Witch in shocking pink robes looked up from her desk and smiled. “Hello Harry! And you must be Undersecretary Jenkins, welcome to the Ministry, sir.” She tapped a piece of notepaper with her wand, and it folded itself into a paper airplane and zoomed through the transom over an inner door.

Moments later, Kingsley Shacklebolt opened the door and beckoned us in. “Hello Ryan – Harry! Esmerelda, I really don't want to be disturbed – nothing less than a Class One emergency, and not even that if it can be helped. Think you can hold them off all right?”

Esmerelda grinned and showed dimples. “Don't you worry, Minister, Chuckie and I can sort anyone who barges in.” She stroked a purple, foot-long model dragon on her desk. It reared up on its hind feet and roared, sending a jet of flame across the room which set a lampshade on fire. She quenched it with a wave of her wand as we went into the Minister's office. Harry was chuckling. “Charlie's present turns out to be useful as well as decorative.”

The Minister's office was a large room, with a heavily carved floor-to-ceiling bow window that apparently looked out on Tower Bridge from somewhere in the middle of the Thames. It was raining. On one wall was a large portrait of Benjamin Franklin in full Wizarding robes; he winked at me and said, “Good to see an American! And nice to be out of that damned storage room and back where I can see!” I saluted him, and he returned it with his wand. There was a red leather sofa and a cluster of armchairs in another corner, and Harry and I stood in front of two empty ones.

Hermione, Arthur and Bill were already there, with yet another red-haired young Wizard. Of course I knew who he was, and was not surprised when he leaped to his feet and bowed as we were introduced. “Absolutely delighted to meet you, Mr. Undersecretary,” he said pompously, “and if there is anything – anything at all! – that I can possibly do for you during your stay here, you have only to ask.”

“Yes, there is, actually,” I said gravely. He practically came to attention, looking eager, and I stuck out my hand and grinned. “Put a sock in it, Percy. Please. I slept in your brother Charlie's room last night, your Mum made me breakfast, and Harry here told me all about how you and Arthur took down Pius Thicknesse. You've got to show me that sea urchin hex! Relax, will you? We're going to be good friends.” Percy looked surprised and a little embarrassed, but grinned back as we shook hands and the others laughed. We sat down.

Kingsley was smiling. “Ryan, your diplomatic skills are unerring.”

“I don't do diplomacy, Kingsley, I'm just me, tryna get stuff done.”

“Just so. And I hope you two will be good friends, because Percy here is doing an amazing job of tracing the flow of money during the Fudge, Scrimgeour and Thicknesse Ministries. He's not done yet, by a long chalk, but he's already found several things that need following up, including a series of rather large funds transfers to – and from – the United States.” He looked at me over his reading glasses, and picked up a scroll from his desk. “Right then, let me show you this...”

We got down to brass tacks very quickly. Harry and I summarized the situation for Percy, each of us explaining what had happened in the other one's country. That showed what we each knew (and didn't know) and got everybody on the same page in jig time. 

After that, we focused on two main points. First, the fact that there were Death Eaters in other countries, which surprised and worried the British. I set up my computer and sure enough, there was a reply waiting to the Wemail I had sent this morning from Harry's place:

_ We have so far identified five people, including Parboil, who were seen to have the Dark Mark on their arms, and have suspicions about two or three more. The Research people say they may be able to determine if a Dark Mark was present by examining a corpse, even after the mark has faded out. Will keep you advised of any definite results. So far, I have not seen any hard evidence of Death Eaters, or Voldemort influence, in any countries besides US and UK. But there have been rumors about Mexico and Canada, which we are trying to chase down. Please expedite Wemail contact directly with Ministry people and departments, as the Minister may direct. Blackstone. _

“That tears it,” I said, “we've just  _ got _ to work together on this.” There were noddings and noises of agreement all around. “Percy, I don't have to tell you that we'll be very interested if you find any money connections with Mexico or Canada.”

“No indeed,” said Percy. “Anything outside the country's a red flag, of course, but I'll see that any Mexico and Canada transactions set off one of Weasleys' Wheezes more spectacular fireworks, so to speak.”

“That's the spirit!”

“Voldemort was an extraordinary Wizard,” pointed out Harry, “but his madness was hardly unique. What he started seems to have spread, rather like an infection in a way, and we've got to try and stamp it out. That's going to take international cooperation.”

“Yes,” said Kingsley, nodding, “exactly. And the first requirement for cooperation is communication.” That led us straight to the second main point, the need to get everyone familiar with things like computers, and Wemail.

Percy, of course, had not seen my computer before. The others filled him in, somehow using far fewer words than I probably would have, and I ran through an abbreviated form of the demonstration I'd given last night: sound, pictures, video, and printing a document with my wand. Percy watched with amazement, exchanging looks now and again with his father. At Harry's suggestion (made with a glint in his eye as we talked this morning), I included a brief and rather steamy clip from a BBC television series he knew of, which featured an actress who looked amazingly like Penelope Clearwater, Percy's girlfriend. Percy's eyes went wide, and he turned a remarkable shade of red. Bill's face went wooden. Fortunately, Arthur and Kingsley didn't seem to notice. But Hermione leaned forward, and then looked straight at us. Harry studied the ceiling, and I tried to look like butter wouldn't melt in my mouth. Hermione didn't buy it for a second, and sat back with her arms crossed.

“Ryan,” Harry spoke up, “if there ever was a moment, this is probably it.”

“Right.” He started to explain about the Sniffer program, while I set it up and made the screen bigger, moving it back into the room so everybody could see it. A map of London appeared, centered on Whitehall, with the blue Wizard's hat in the center. I had activated the laserpoint charm on the end of my wand, and sat comfortably as I tapped the hat. “That's where we are right now – it detects its own position using GPS, which is a Muggle system you can tap into with Magic, even far underground like this, where it doesn't work for them. Now, London's a big, busy place, so I'm going to limit our radius to just a mile from the center.”

I entered the limit and touched OK with my wand, then I zoomed in on the Ministry and drew a boundary around it. “Let's leave the Ministry out, for now – way too much magic here, we'd just get a confused sort of lump on the screen.” I hit the DETECT button and a great many colored icons and symbols appeared. Most of them were concentrated in a long, irregular line in the upper portion of the map.

“That's Diagon Alley!” exclaimed Kingsley. I zoomed in on the area, and as it expanded on the screen, everyone's attention focused on a short offshoot which was crowded with ominously-colored icons.

“Knockturn Alley,” said Arthur disapprovingly. 

“And look – there's Borgin and Burkes!” Added Hermione in an even more negative tone. “Just look at that. They're simply full of nasty things, aren't they?”

Almost all the icons in Knockturn Alley were showing in warning colors. Most, to be fair, were only yellow. But there was a lot of things with the orange border and red center, and quite a few with red borders and black centers. Most of those seemed to be in Borgin and Burkes, which, I was beginning to think, was much like some of the shadier places you find in New Orleans, Southern California, Montana, New Jersey, and upper Manhattan. 

“I should point out that this spell was created with reference to United States Magical laws and statutes,” I said, “so some things may not be classified correctly under your laws here. Another feature, one we didn't see last night, is that you can temporarily ignore an item, and it disappears from the display – like this...” I caused several yellow items in Borgin and Burkes to go onto the Hidden list. Then I stared. “Hello,” I said slowly, “what's this?”

The disappearance of the yellow icons had revealed a cluster of three all-black icons. 

“All black, if I got it right, means an object which cannot possibly be used for anything except dark magic, and is dangerous in itself, just sitting there.” Harry was intent. “What are they?” 

I used my wand, but dialog boxes came up empty. “Can't tell. Maybe these people have some sort of shielding charm that works a little too well. The research people are really going to want to know about this.” I started typing in notes. “And we could really use better information about architecture and relative spatial locations...”

“They must certainly be well hidden, and well shielded, or they would have been found before now,” observed Arthur, with narrowed eyes.

Kingsley spoke up without taking his eyes off the display. “This....is...very...interesting. I never imagined....we must certainly have this.”

“Well,  _ we _ don't have it yet,” I admitted. “This is still the beta-test version. What I would rather say is that you must certainly help us develop it, so that we can  _ both _ have it, as soon as possible.”

“Agreed.” 

“I'm sorry now that I went to bed so early last night,” said Bill. “This is going to revolutionize the Auror department.”

“Eventually, I rather think this sort of thing could revolutionize the entire Ministry,” Arthur put in.

Kingsley was nodding. “Yes....yes, you may well be right, Arthur. But not all at once. What we must do is make a start, and it's clear that the place to begin is with the Aurors.”

“Right.” – “Definitely.” – “Of course.” – “Yes.” – “No question.” We all spoke at once.

“And that means we shall have to have a new Head Auror without delay. I have been putting this off too long. We lost so many people to Voldemort – in one way or another – that seniority has become meaningless.”

“There's Elliott...” began Harry.

“Elliott Witherspoon is a very fine young man,” said Kingsley, “but he is only just back from St. Mungo's. And much as I like him, he is not the man for this job. His name is not widely known, and right now, it is essential that we re-establish confidence in the Aurors. There is only one possible choice.” He turned to face Harry and looked him straight in the eye. “Harry, let me offer you my heartfelt sympathy, as well as congratulations.”

***************


	8. Aurors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's new job is hailed by everyone (except Harry) and gets off to a wild start.

Harry looked like my lab partner when I did my first successful Stunning Spell. But I saw at once how this would appear in the US, and realized the British Wizarding community was going to have the same reaction. “Kingsley, officially and for the record, the United States Department of Magic thinks you made a brilliant choice.”

“Thank you. So do I. The one we have to convince is Harry.”

That took a little doing. Harry tried pointing out that he'd never finished Hogwarts, and Arthur snorted, and said, “Maybe not, but you finished Voldemort, and that counts for something.” Harry protested that he hadn't had any of the specialized Auror training, but Kingsley brushed that aside.

“There is no training available right now. We're going to have to rebuild that organization as well. Look here, Harry, I don't see this as a permanent appointment. You will serve for a time, and do what you can. Believe me, it will help. You already have many of the skills, and you will have a chance to complete your training eventually. When we find someone we can trust, someone with greater experience, you can hand over the responsibilities. That person – even if their name is not well known – will take office with your backing, and _that_ will help.”

“Kingsley, I--” Harry stopped, struggling with something. “This is just – did you know that both Fudge and Scrimgeour used the same argument on me? Tried to get me to join the Ministry so they could use my name to make people think they were doing the right thing?”

“No,” Kingsley shook his head, “but I'm not surprised to hear it. Tell me, Harry, do you really think that I'm another Cornelius Fudge?” Harry looked stubborn, and Kingsley went on, “Cornelius was a reasonably capable administrator, but utterly unfitted for the crisis that came upon us. He thought appearances were everything, and many on the staff had come to think so too. Rufus was much tougher, but by the time he took over, there wasn't much he could do in the time he had; the rot had well and truly set in, between the inertia of Fudge's years in office and the effects of Voldemort's – well, not simply his return, but his increasing assault on the Ministry. I think Rufus was grasping at straws when he asked you to join.”

“I told him off, you know.” Harry looked Kingsley straight in the eye, and there was a defiant note in his voice. “He took me aside at the Weasleys', at Christmas no less. I told him what I thought of the Ministry and it's damned hypocrisy. Do you think I did the right thing?”

“Oh, yes! If you'd agreed – then – it wouldn't have changed anything, and it might have given Voldemort the opportunity to kill you. But now, Harry, now things are different.”

“Different – how, exactly?” Harry started that with an almost truculent tone, but then it became just a question.

“Voldemort is gone. The Ministry has been wrenched off its tracks, rather, and we have a real chance to lead it in a fresh direction. And it's not the same request at all, you know. You're not being asked to lend your name for others to use, you're being asked to take on a massive responsibility and do a crucially important job of work, partly because your name will help you do the job, it's true, but mainly because I think you can bloody well get it done!”

“I'm not so sure.”

“If I thought you were, we wouldn't be having this conversation.” Harry opened his mouth to say something and stopped, looking uncertain. Kingsley smiled at him. “Harry, this is the sort of work you wanted, now isn't it? And I'm not expecting you to take on the entire task of rebuilding and administering the whole organization – that will take years. I just want you to get the process started properly, headed in the right direction. I think you know what an Auror ought to be, you see that clearly enough – and you won't have to un-learn patterns and habits of thought that silted up in your mind during years of being a cog in the Ministry machine. I don't want someone who's sure of what to do. I want someone who will question everything as he goes along, and figure it out afresh.”

“How...” Harry took in about a bushel of air. “How long d'you reckon?”

“I'm not sure. A few months, at the very least. Perhaps as long as a couple of years. It will depend partly on our progress – and you will help! – in finding a successor, but mostly how long you stay Head Auror will depend on how well you do!” Harry's eyes widened, and Kingsley snorted. “I'm not going to keep you there if you screw it up, Harry! Let you damage the Ministry...and yourself? Don't be silly. Again, if I thought that was likely, we would not be having this conversation. So you see, I'm not so sure, either. I just need to make a decision right now, and this is the best one I can make.”

Harry turned to Hermione and me, but I don't think he saw us, he was looking inward. He went over to the window and looked out at the river, where a small boat was going under the bridge, but I don't think he saw that either.

“Harry.” It was Ben Franklin's portrait; Harry's head turned abruptly toward it. “What's a sundial in the shade? If you've got a talent, use it.”

“Maybe I've got a talent, but I don't know enough.”

The 18th-Century figure laughed. “Who ever does? Tell me, and I forget. Teach me, and I may remember. Involve me, and I learn.”

Harry tilted his head at that. Then he turned to the Minister, grimaced, and said “Well...I guess I could try, but...”  
“No buts.” Kingsley gave Harry his full support: complete _carte blanche_ to make any changes he wanted, and direct access to the Minister at any time. “And before you ask, no, I'm not going to give you more time to think it over. I'm releasing the news this afternoon. We need you.” He stood up and stuck out his hand, and Harry stood up and blinked at him, then slowly extended his hand and they shook. We all stood up and applauded. Bill and I cheered and Percy joined in, then tried to be the first one to clap him on the back, but Hermione flew past him.

She hugged him, and he hugged back. “Oh, Harry! This is wonderful!”

Things eventually subsided, and Kingsley motioned us all back to our seats. “We will have to celebrate later. We still have work to do.”

It seemed like a good moment to change the subject, while Harry sorted himself out, as they say over there. “I've been thinking about this whole process, and it seems to me we've got to look at both the short term and the long term. In the short term, getting you going with the Muggle internet, and the Winternet, and dealing with immediate needs like the programmed spell we've just seen, means training some people. In the long term, though, it should probably mean changes in the way you educate – some new classes at Hogwarts, or at least some additions to the curriculum.”

“I think that's a very good point,” said Hermione at once. “Except that electrical and electronic things don't work at Hogwarts.”

“Oh.” That was a problem. “Well, there may be ways around that. But you can still teach theory, and at least give students the information they need to deal with things.”

Hermione nodded. “What sort of classes where you thinking of?”

“Some introduction to basic principles of science – Muggle science – so that everyone would learn about things that interface with Magic, such as electricity, and chemistry, and so forth. Once you can find a way – or create a place, maybe – to do lab work, and magically powered computers become available, training with those would be useful. Maybe other things. It's a little hard to be sure what's needed, because I don't really know much about your educational system.”

“Then you should talk to someone who does,” said Kingsley, “and I know just the person.”

“Professor McGonagall!” Hermione said instantly.

“Exactly. The Department of Magical Education here is still trying to recover from a bad case of Umbridge” – he made a face, along with Hermione and Harry – “and Minerva needs to be informed in any case. But she has her hands full at Hogwarts just now, and I don't want to pull her away. Do you think you could go up there and meet with her?”

I was delighted. “Certainly! I would very much like to see Hogwarts in any case.” I put more notes in my file. My To-Do list was assuming record proportions. “There's someone coming in on Thursday – that's tomorrow! – to assist me. I'd like to introduce him around as soon as possible. Hmmmm....once he's up to speed – whoever he is! – I could go up to Hogwarts. I'll have to go out and meet him at Heathrow – hopefully, he'll bring some fresh TAPKeys, we've really got to get them up and running.” I looked up at Kingsley. “When do you think you might have someone, or some people, ready to go to Washington?”

“I'm not sure. Perhaps by the time you get back from Hogwarts.”

“That would be fine. At first, I guess your people who want to learn about Wemail and such will have to come to America. Hopefully we'll soon get some of them back here, teaching others, but the sooner we start...”

“Yes indeed. But speaking of time, I am almost out of it. There is a meeting of the Wizengamot tomorrow, and I must prepare.” I shut down the computer and shrunk it away. We all stood up, and Kingsley shook all our hands. “Thank you all, very much – I am tremendously encouraged by all this!” Kingsley asked Arthur to stay, and ushered the rest of us out. Esmerelda waved as we went by, and Chuckie hiccuped – about enough to light a cigarette. When we got in the elevator – sorry, the lift – Harry turned to Percy.

“Look, Percy, I owe you an apology. That clip from 'Spaced' was my suggestion entirely, I heard about it from Dean Thomas, and it – it was really quite uncalled for. I am sorry about that.”

I wasn't going to let him take the rap. “Me too, Percy. I was the one that found it on the Muggle internet. And I did help, uh, select the, uh – excerpt. I'm sorry.”

“She did look amazingly like Penelope, didn't she? That's all right, fellows, I forgive you.” Percy was being noble. Then he smiled. “I'm a Weasley, after all, and don't forget I spent my formative years living directly underneath Fred and George.” 

Harry's eyes got bigger. Bill observed thoughtfully, “Who pulled every trick in the book on you, and then started writing new books.”

“Precisely.” My smile probably looked as sickly as Harry's, but Percy's smile could have settled down and made itself at home on a shark. He became positively genial. “Cheer up! You're Head Auror now, and  _ you _ live in America, and you'll both be traveling about quite a bit. It may be  _ years _ before a suitable opportunity presents itself.” The lift stopped at his floor, and the doors opened. “Well, back to the books. Ta!” He walked away humming to himself.

The lift doors closed and both Bill and Hermione roared with laughter. 

When we got down to the Atrium, they were still wiping their eyes. I shook my head. “Harry, there's an old tradition in America – and I'll bet it's even older, over here – that when a man gets a promotion, it needs to be properly irrigated. Know a good pub? I'm buying.”

We ended up at the Leaky Cauldron, where I was introduced to Tom, the bartender, who they called the “landlord.” I made a mental note to organize a book of handy phrases or something. He greeted us with pleasure, and when he heard the news, he was delighted. “Harry Potter – Head Auror! That's just brilliant, that's what it is!”

His loud exclamation raised startled cheers and applause from half a dozen Witches and Wizards in the place, and a pair of dwarves who had just come in pounded on the underside of a table. Tom stood the house to a drink, which made some of them gasp, and poured us a shot of Firewhiskey, which made me gasp. After enduring handshakes, backslappings, and “Go get 'em, Harry” from those present, Harry looked relieved when we were settled around a table in a small upstairs room with mugs of butterbeer.

“That's the worst of it, frankly. I've had enough publicity to last a lifetime. I just want to get on with the job.”

“You'd better think up a statement for the Daily Prophet,” advised Hermione, “because they'll probably...” she was interrupted by a knock at the door.

It was Tom, who stuck his head in and said, “Sorry to bother you, but there's a couple of reporters here from---”

“--the Daily Prophet!” we all said together, except Harry, who put his head down on the table and buried it in his arms.

Hermione got to her feet. “I'll take care of this. Tell them you're meeting with Ministry officials and can't be disturbed.” She turned to me. “Do you think it would be all right if I mentioned your presence?”

I shook my head. “Better not. Kingsley can do a press thing after we've firmed up our immediate plans and arrangements.”

“Yes of course,” agreed Hermione, “that way you'll have some definite announcements. Besides,” she added, a dangerous glint in her eye, “Tom didn't say, but one of those people might be Rita Skeeter.”

She left, and Bill patted Harry on the shoulder. “There you go, Harry! Now you've quite obviously got every reason,  _ and _ the authority, to let somebody else face the press.” Harry lifted his head and opened his eyes.

“You know, you're right.” He sat up, and reached for his butterbeer. “Good job Percy wasn't here, though! Bless Hermione.” He drank.

I looked at Bill. “You know, Bill, I like Percy. He's basically a good guy. But he really needs to loosen up – broaden his horizons, or something.”

Bill looked back at me and nodded. “That's about the way I feel. 'Course he's my brother, and I love him, but he's so narrow sometimes. Not a bit  _ stupid _ , really, at all, but he can be rather like a racehorse with blinders on. Can't see things until they're right in front of him.” 

“Old Doc Jenkins prescribes travel! Travel is broadening. You have no idea how this trip is broadening  _ me _ all to hell!” They chuckled, and I groused, “It happened so fast I didn't even have time for a language course! Rashers. Petrol. Lifts. Knuts and Sickles. Landlords. Landlord? He's the  _ bartender _ , for cryin' out loud!” 

Hoping to distract Harry, I continued in that vein, and after a little while, even he was laughing when the door opened and Hermione returned and sat down. “No problems! All I did was confirm your appointment and say that you were in a meeting and could not be disturbed. And I did say that you were deeply honored, and determined to do your best.”

“That's fine,” said Harry. “Thanks – and tell me, was it Rita Skeeter?”

“Well, one of them was a man named Winkleburr or something like that, and he took down my statements. And what do you know, the other  _ was _ dear Rita, and she showed me her best side. She was running out the door, just as I was just coming down the stairs. Pity.” Hermione looked like a cat who had just finished a particularly succulent mouse.

When I asked, Bill's job at Gringott's turned out to be curse-breaking, not finance. He'd been badly needed and extremely busy when Kingsley and others were reclaiming the Ministry from Voldemort's regime, but now was simply “on call” and not having nearly as much to do. When he mentioned the possibility of being recalled by the goblins if his job was done, Harry was glum.

“That's too bad, because I've a feeling we're going to need some serious curse-breaking when we start exploring places with Ryan's dark magic Sniffer.” He brightened. “Tell you what. Let's go back to the Ministry and set it up. If we can make some good scans of the London area, I'll bet we can find enough work to keep you with us for awhile yet.”

Hermione excused herself, saying she wanted to go down Diagon Alley to the shop and see how Ron and George were getting along, and Harry said, “I'd really like to have you with us, Hermione, and Ron too. I'm just realizing how much there is to do. With Dawlish under arrest, it's just Witherspoon, Proudfoot and me.” Hermione promised to bring Ron, and asked if she should send an owl to Neville. “Brilliant! Come round as soon as you can, I'll leave word at the gate. Hopefully, we'll have some of the area mapped out when you arrive.”

But that wasn't the way it worked out. When Harry, Bill and I arrived at the door of the Auror Office on level two, we were met by a small crowd of a dozen or so Witches and Wizards from that floor. Harry had to endure more congratulations, and this time couldn't duck out of saying something. “Thanks, all of you. I'm glad you feel that way, because I'm certainly going to need all the help I can get.” He cocked an eye at me, and I nodded. “But some has started to arrive. You all know Bill, and if you're wondering who this other fellow is, this is Ryan Jenkins, who's a trained Auror just come over from the United States Department of Magic.” That caused a bit of a stir, but I just smiled and nodded and didn't speak. “For the moment, though, his arrival isn't public knowledge. Please keep it under your hats, won't you, until the Minister makes an announcement. As for me, I suppose I'm still in shock a bit over the whole thing, but I imagine the best remedy for that is to get to work!”

The Auror Office looked a lot like a precinct station; it was a fairly large room. There were cubicles, mostly bare now, some with cardboard boxes of stuff sitting in them. Things were pinned up on walls and dividers, and filing cabinets lined one side of the room. I was introduced to two Witches who served as secretaries, Jenny Fowler, who was youngish, thin, and intense, and Mrs. Lobelia Murdle, who was not youngish, not thin, and seemed formidably competent. They went quietly back to work clearing out cubicles.

Abner Proudfoot was a middle-aged Wizard, burly and tough-looking, with a serious case of five-o'clock shadow. He looked Harry straight in the eye, and said in a relieved tone of voice, “Harry, this is a bit of all right, is what it is. I was terrified they were going to dump the load on me, when you're obviously the man for the job. It's always a bit of a surprise when you see a round peg fit neatly into a round hole, ain't it?”

“Same here, Harry!” Elliott Witherspoon was 28, Harry had mentioned, but he looked older, thanks to the lines in his face. He walked with a limp, and seemed to move kind of gingerly, but his eyes were merry. He had red robes and a long brown pony tail. “And if you will come this way, sir, we have something to show you!”

“Go lightly on that 'sir' business, Elliott, I'm still Harry, OK?” Witherspoon led us to a door on the other side of the room, and pointed it out with a flourish. The Auror emblem (a large M with a wand sitting upright in front of it) was carved into the polished wood, lined with silver, and above it was inlaid shining gold letters:

**HARRY POTTER**

**HEAD AUROR**

Harry looked like he didn't know what to say, and Witherspoon went on, “Kingsley sent Middleton from maintenance to put that up, and he just finished about half an hour ago. He was the one told us!”

I laughed. “Reminds me of home! The grapevine always has the news first.”

The room wasn't huge, but it would comfortably hold maybe twenty people. It was clean, and furnished with a desk and chair, a filing cabinet, and an intricately patterned oriental rug; there was a bay window at the far end, which looked out into the Atrium; and that was all. “Right then,” said Harry, “I'm expecting Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, and Neville Longbottom I hope, and we have something to show you two fellows.” He looked around the room critically. “Let's just turn that desk so it faces the window, and move it up so there's plenty of room for all of us to sit behind. We'll need chairs for everyone – Abner, Elliott, just bring seven or eight in from the cubicles, would you? Thanks Bill – a little farther forward, I think – that's fine. Ryan, could you set up your computer on the desk, please? Now we ought to block the window but there don't seem to be any curtains...”

Abner Proudfoot, steering a chair through the door with his wand, came in just in time to hear the last sentence. “We've got better than curtains, Harry. Scrimgeour put in a security shield. It's still there – take it out if you'd rather, but – here, let me show you then.” He pointed his wand at the top of the window and said “ _ Securitatas! _ ” In a flash, part of the walls on either side turned to metal, folded themselves out in sections like a dressing-room screen, and met in the middle to lock into a shield that blocked the window completely. “Muggle army's best armor plate, he said it was.” 

“Don't know if I'll be using it much,” said Harry, “but I'll grant it's handy enough right now. Thanks, Abner.” As Elliott Witherspoon brought the last chair through the office door and steered it to a perfect four-point landing at the end of a semicircle, a voice in the outer office said “Hullo! Anyone here?”

“Neville!” Harry's face lit up and he started for the door as a big Wizard suddenly filled it up, dressed in rather rumpled grey robes with splashes of dried mud on them. He had curly black hair, and his face broke into a huge grin as he spotted Harry. He stuck out his hand and grabbed Harry's. “Congratulations Harry! This is absolutely terrific! Dunno what you want me for, but I'm all yours if I can help. Sorry about the mud. When I got Hermione's owl I was just finishing up some repotting in Gran's greenhouse. Reckoned it was quicker to just show up than write back.”

Neville Longbottom was quickly introduced, and when we shook hands he said, “An American! Say, that's a coincidence for you. I've just been reading about the Red Indians and some of the magical properties of cactus plants, and some really strange ones called 'Joshua Trees' for some reason. You wouldn't happen to know any Red Indians, would you?”

“Well, I had one for a roommate in school, but I haven't seen him since graduation.”

“Really! I hope we'll have a chance to talk, later. Right now, though, this is Harry's show. What's the word, Harry?”

All that is why I had only just finished setting up the display (this time I made it floor to ceiling and wall to wall), grabbing a quick charge in case we needed the Muggle internet (easily done in a city teeming with electric wires), introducing Neville, Elliott and Abner to the computer with an even quicker demonstration of its features, and was getting ready to set up the Sniffer – instead of having actually made some progress – when Ron and Hermione arrived.

“Hi everybody!” Ron was a little breathless. “Sorry we're a bit late. The shop's a madhouse. Wouldn't have gotten away if Hermione hadn't gone and found Verity and brought her in. Poor George!”

We must have looked concerned, because Hermione said “Oh, it's all right really, he'll be fine. It's just that there's been customers all day, lots of them people who've never been in before, and everyone's been buying something, sometimes just a trick wand or a single dung bomb, and when they pay they'll say 'for Fred.'” She sniffed. “It's doing wonders for George, but he's constantly on the verge of tears.”

“Yeah. One really old Witch came in and bought a Nose-biting Teacup, and when she paid George she said 'for Fred, young man, and for you too. He's not gone, you know. He's just not here, that's all. You stick it out, now.' I thought I was going to go then. Dunno how George kept it together.” Ron shook his head, then looked up. “But let's get on with it. Have you found more stuff at Borgin and Burke's?”

We did demonstrate the program-spell on Knockturn Alley. Abner, Elliott and Neville were still busy being amazed, but they saw the implications instantly. When we scanned Borgin and Burke's, however, the black objects were no longer to be found. We started “looking under” yellow icons by hiding them, and turned up another all-black item, and that's when Harry called a halt.

“Borgin and Burkes is an entire project, all by itself. And there's clearly not much point in doing a scan of a place like this until just before a raid goes in. Instead, let's have a look at London in general, or as much of it as we can cover here tonight. What do you think, Ryan?”

“Do you want to take it by sections, or work out from the center?”

“You could take a wide view first,” said Hermione thoughtfully, “and try to identify particular areas – like Diagon Alley – that'll probably be the biggest area, won't it? – that we want to look at in detail later.”

“Makes sense,” said Ron. Abner and Elliott nodded.

“Yes it does,” agreed Harry. “But before we do that, there's one thing we need to do first.” He looked at me with a wry face. “Ryan, I've been deliberately putting off suggesting this, and I think you have too. Am I right?”

“Bull's eye – if you're talking about scanning the Ministry.” Everyone but the two of us sat up straight and looked at each other. “Wouldn't have been friendly for me to suggest it, and anyway I knew damn well I didn't have to.”

“Right. Now's a good time, I think.”

I had to expand the radius three times. The Ministry of Magic is huge. I made another quick note – the British were going to need what our Research people had come up with to fool ground-penetrating radar, and I had a strong feeling that eventually the Muggles were going to catch up with the program-spell I'd seen which turned seismic waves into pictures. But when I hit DETECT what we saw was a solid mass of color.

“Well, one thing, we've definitely proved there's a lot of magic going on here,” said Ron.

“Hey, that's what they mean by a beta-test. But we're not dead yet, let me see if I can work around this...” The problem, of course, was our location. Being a bit off-center was all right, but there was magic above us and below us. “The Research department showed me a three-d display – called it a 'holomagic' display – that would give us this picture beautifully. But for now, I think I can adjust the range to sort of take slices. Top to bottom or bottom to top?”

“Bottom up, I think. Level Ten's the courtrooms.”

I entered an estimated fourteen-foot thickness and hit Bottom – and suddenly the screen showed a pattern of icons and lines that did not at all suggest a courtroom. “What are we looking at here?”

“Ah! Detention cells below the courtrooms.” Abner Proudfoot was in no doubt. “See, those'll be the locks, there...” I tapped an icon with my wand and the dialog box said  **Cell Lock, Unbreakable Clamping Hex - Open** . We identified various magical items on this level, all perfectly reasonable things to find in a jail. The only unusual thing was a large circle, just a thin yellow line about ten feet in diameter, in the entrance corridor. I tapped that and the box read  **Ministry Seal – Locked** .. 

“Right,” said Abner, his face clearing. “It's wrought iron, inlaid in the floor. Been there so long it's hard to see now, I'd nearly forgotten about it.”

“Didn't know there was anything below Level Ten,” confessed Harry. “That's the bottom, then?”

“Nothin' below those cells but rock,” said Abner.

“I can show that. If I just move things down one level the screen will go blank...” I was doing it as I spoke, but the screen did not go blank. “Whoa! What the hell is  _ that? _ ” 

Everyone was silent for a moment. The screen showed a circular area, dead black, outlined in red, and the red was flashing. “That's an extremely dangerous black magic _something_ – and it's active.” 

“There shouldn't be nothing under those cells,” said Abner, drawing his wand as if by reflex. “I don't like this.”

I started to tap the image with my wand, but Bill stopped me. “Wait a minute. Ryan – is there any chance that this spell of yours might somehow be detectable by – whatever that is? Could affect it somehow?”

I answered slowly. “The people who made this said absolutely not. They were quite confident about it. But...”

“But what?”

“That's one of the things they hoped I'd have a chance to test.”

“Ah. Yes. Right.”

“What's bothering me,” said Hermione, “is that this object seems to be right below the Ministry Seal. And why would a seal, inlaid into the floor, be 'locked'?”

“It could simply mean the inlay was put into the floor with some kind of locking spell to keep it in place...” Neville didn't sound very sure about it.

“Or it could be that's a door or a gate to let whatever that is – out.” Elliott said what I was thinking.

I was also thinking of an old film I'd seen, when I was studying the Muggle side of the War. It was about some Muggles, here in London, who worked at defusing unexploded bombs.  _ Without _ magic. Terrifying! “Uhhh...Harry – should we think about evacuating the Ministry?”

“Hate to do that. Enormous disruption, and all that – but the risk...” Harry was feeling the burden of office settle fully on his shoulders. He could pass the buck to Kingsley, but that would be a lousy way to start off his new job. He took in another bushel of air and let it out again. “Right then. Here's how we'll do it. Ryan, I'm going to trust those research people of yours; they haven't let us down yet. But before you try to find out what that thing is, we're going to take some precautions. Just a bit of pre-planning. We'll all have our wands out and ready, if you would please – thank you – now. If there's any indications of change in that thing, I, and Abner, and Bill will Apparate directly to the detention cells area. Neville, Ron and Hermione will Apparate to the courtroom level, at the head of the stairs leading down, and listen. Elliott, I will require someone up here to hold the fort, as it were, and that's you, and – if anything should happen to me, you're acting. As for you, Ryan, I will not risk our most valuable foreign contact. You will be needed here in any case to monitor the display.”

Nobody even thought of arguing. Harry was in charge. We stood, wands in hand.

“Everyone ready? All right then, Ryan, let's see if you can tell us what it is.”

I reached out to the screen and touched the black icon ever so lightly.

A dialog box opened, and it read  **Basilisk – Extreme Danger** . .

***************


	9. Level Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry leads the battle against a terrifying surprise, found underneath the Ministry of Magic itself.

“Any change?”

“None. It's not moving, there's no indication of increased activity. Here – ” I took the display back up to the floor of the cells, and tapped the inlaid seal again. The box still said “Locked.” I opened up a second window and put the two images side by side.

“Oh, nice – didn't know you could do that,” said Ron. “That helps.”

“I'm going to get Kingsley. Stay here.” Harry disappeared.

“Even if that seal is some sort of pop-top for a can of fresh basilisk, how are we going to get it open?” I thought it was a good question.

“I don't think that will be a problem,” said Hermione. “It probably opens just like the Chamber of Secrets.” I knew about Harry's encounter with a basilisk at Hogwarts, but there was so much ground to cover this morning – was it only this morning? – that he'd skipped a lot of details. When I looked a question, she and Ron told me about Harry being a parselmouth, and described the fight in the Chamber. They were still talking, and I was realizing how very modest Harry had been, when  _ crack-crack _ ! Harry and Kingsley appeared in the room.

“No change, Harry,” said Neville. None of us had taken our eyes off the display.

Kingsley looked at it intently. “Ryan, you may not have been informed, but Apparition is limited in the Ministry building – it is only possible to Apparate within the structure inside the top two levels, to other places in the building  _ from _ the top two levels, and  _ to _ them from other places only as a return trip. Everywhere else, everyone must use the lifts or the stairs. This will require careful handling. Let's see – it's after six, many people will have left.”

“If the basilisk has been sitting there all this time, we can probably take time to prepare, and choose our moment,” pointed out Harry, “not that I want us to take our eyes off that screen for a second. Time to organize this – set up a watch – change it about every ten minutes – uhh...alphabetically by first name. Abner, you're up.”

“Right. Ten minutes. Bill's next.”

“Good!” said Kingsley. “And you're right, Harry, we have some time in hand. But I cannot allow people to come in tomorrow morning if the basilisk is still there. We should do this with the building empty, but there are always some who stay on after hours. Hmmm. I can send a general memo asking everyone to leave, say within an hour, because...” He frowned.

“Because I need the place empty in order to conduct a series of sensitive and delicate tests for an insidious hidden surveillance charm which Voldemort could have left behind.   
Any casual magic in the building could throw off the results.” Bill's voice carried conviction.

“Excellent. Taking all possible precautions for the security of our people. That will do nicely.” Kingsley disappeared.

Elliott shifted in his chair and looked at Harry. “So it looks as if we'll be able to let the beastie out, but what do we do then, exactly?”

“Just what I was thinkin',” said Ron, and Hermione added, “Harry, I think you're the only Wizard who's actually killed a basilisk in something like four hundred years. But I don't think your experience is going to do us much good.”

“Too right,” agreed Harry. “I don't happen to have a magic sword on me at the moment, and anyway, I'd have never stood a chance if Fawkes hadn't blinded it first. This time, though, I've got my wand for a change. Let's try and avoid close quarters, shall we?” At that moment, Kingsley Apparated back into his chair, and Harry added, “Kingsley, we were just talking about how one goes about killing a basilisk.”

“Will Avada Kedavra do it?” asked Neville.

“It may. In fact, it should,” said Kingsley slowly, “but this isn't just a basilisk, it's Voldemort's basilisk. So just in case the killing curse doesn't kill, I'd like to have a Plan B in place and ready to go.” Bill was nodding emphatically.

“I don't think we have a complete Plan A yet,” objected Elliott.

“Too right,” put in Abner, without taking his eyes off the display. “You've got to look at a thing to curse it, and what if it looks back?”

“I just remembered!” exclaimed Hermione. “The only thing fatal to it is the crow of the rooster. That was in the book at Hogwarts.”

“Of course!” rejoined Harry. “That was on the piece of paper we found in your hand when you were petrified.”

“We can get a rooster,” said Ron, “but if the basilisk sees him first he won't be in any condition to crow.”

The sound of a rooster crowing filled the room, and everyone looked around – except Abner. But he'd been aware that I'd brought up another window on the screen and started riffling through some computer files. I made the rooster crow again. “Will that do?”

“Same answer!” Kingsley was grinning. “It should! But I'd still like a Plan B.”

It took us four hours before we were ready. Neville went out to St. Mungo's and brought back some mandrake root potion; the best Plan B we could evolve carried a serious risk of someone's being petrified. Plan B was actually Plan C. Elliott suggested we simply put up mirrors in the room and wait for it to see itself, but nobody was at all sure this would work. Still, it seemed worth trying, so the walls, ceiling and floor of the detention room were turned into perfect reflecting surfaces by Bill and Hermione. While they were in there, Ron never took his eyes from the display screen.

The idea was that the basilisk would emerge into a mirrored area, and if seeing itself didn't kill it, it would immediately hear the crow of the rooster, repeatedly. I went down and put audio transducer spells in place, but it took a little time to connect them properly. Something on Level Nine kept interfering, and since that floor houses the Department of Mysteries, there was no hope of finding out what it was. We finally had to bypass that floor completely by drilling through the stonework so the multipair charm went straight from the stairs to the lift shaft.

The display should tell us if the basilisk changed position, or if it died. If it didn't, though, we would have to let it come up to the next level to attack it. Tackling a basilisk in a room full of mirrors – if it was immune to its own glance – was unanimously voted a Really Bad Idea. On level ten, we closed off and sealed all the doors with every lock and barrier spell anybody could think of, hopefully confining the beast to the hallways and the stairs. I put several more audio transducers at the ends of the hallways, and set up an audio mixer to operate them independently. We hoped a sound, coming from one of them, might distract the basilisk, or attract it, as might be necessary. The idea of a basilisk loose in the Department of Mysteries was judged an Even Worse Idea, so we blocked the stairway to Level Nine, and the hallway in front of the door to the Department, with a solid mass of filing cabinets, reinforced with chains, holding charms and barrier spells.

To look at the basilisk without risking more than petrification meant seeing it in a mirror. In Hogwarts, four people, a cat, and a ghost had been petrified by the Basilisk's glance, but only the ghost (Nearly Headless Nick, who I was much looking forward to meeting) had seen it directly, and of course he couldn't be killed because he was already dead. The others had seen it indirectly – one through a camera lens, one through the ghost, two in a mirror, and one (the cat) reflected in a pool of water. We talked about welder's masks and video cameras, but decided to stick with things that were already proven to work. It was Hermione who solved the problem by remembering a Muggle children's toy she'd had – a little cardboard periscope. She and Ron left, and it was over two hours later when they came back with half a dozen of them, new in boxes, and laid them on the desk with a polite suggestion that we not ask where they got them.

Plan C was admittedly dangerous, and I thought bordered on desperate, but if the Killing Curse would work on basilisks, it would – probably – give someone a good shot at the target. Two Wizards would Apparate simultaneously to different points. In a narrow space like the hallway, we figured the creature would only be looking in one direction. One person might be petrified but the other would have a chance to hurl the curse, and if necessary to use accio on the victim and Apparate back. If all went well. If someone got bitten, however, we had no phoenix tears to save them. 

The question of who would go was settled almost before it was asked. Harry announced he would lead the first team. I thought Kingsley was going to object, but Harry's look made it plain that if he did he would have to start looking for a new Head Auror. Abner would go with Harry. Kingsley and Bill would be a second team, and Ron and Neville a third.

Harry had his wand in his right hand, a periscope in his left, and was about to go down and try to open the Seal when I shook my head like a horse. “Harry, wait a minute. You don't have to go down. I'm an idiot. My brain must be clogged or something. Audio transducer charms can be reversed. You can say your say right up here, and have it come out the speakers in the detention chamber. Sorry. I should have thought of that hours ago.”

“You thought of it in time, mate, and that's good enough. Let's try it.” I made the change and nodded at him, watching the level meters. Everyone but me and Elliott (who was on watch) looked at Harry. He began to speak. What we heard was a series of weird hissing sounds – and the yellow circle on the display turned suddenly red. The dialog box changed to read  **Ministry Seal – Unlocked** ., and the basilisk icon began to flash and change. It looked like it was swirling, or maybe uncoiling.

I changed the transducers in Harry's office back to speaker-form, and changed one of the units in the detention chamber over to pickup-form. We suddenly heard the sound of metal grating on stone. This continued for what seemed like about three years, but was probably more like three minutes. There was a pause, and then the sound of something heavy setting down – a great grinding thump. Then there was a slithering sound – that's the only word that comes close to describing it, a hard-edged, oily sort of sliding noise.

The basilisk roared.

It was a very low-frequency hiss, I guess. It sounded a bit like a huge fire extinguisher, if a fire extinguisher could sound angry. The icon on the display started to change shape, it elongated. And it moved. It roared again.

“It would seem the mirrors aren't doing it,” said Kingsley.

“I  _ thought _ it might be just a story somebody made up.” said Hermione, “After all, a basilisk might catch a glimpse of its own tail. But at any rate, now we know.”

“Let's have the cock crow,” Harry ordered. I let it go, three times in a row, and we held our breaths.

The basilisk roared.

I gave it another three rooster crows, with the volume all the way up. It roared again, longer and louder. We all looked at each other with grave concern, and I use the term advisedly. “I don't understand it,” said Bill, “the authoritative books all say the crow of the rooster is fatal to basilisks.”

“Maybe Voldemort made it deaf,” suggested Neville.

“It seemed to hear the rooster all right, it responded,” pointed out Elliott.

“Nothing for it then,” said Harry decisively. “Ready, Abner?” They took their places on either side of me. “Ryan, where does it seem to be now?”

“It looks like it's moving toward the North end of the room, between the cages. It's heading for the stairs.” We watched the flashing icon move across the window displaying the detention cell level, reach the edge, and shorten. It appeared in the stairwell on the other window, and started to lengthen. “It's reached Level Ten.”

I had zoomed in on Level Ten until we were just seeing the corridors, with the courtrooms off-screen. They looked like a capital letter T, with the crossbar running East to West, and the upright going off to the South. At the top of the T was the stairwell down to the detention cells. At either end of the crossbar were doors to courtrooms. Along the upright of the T were doors on either side, and there was another one at the end. All, of course, were locked and blocked by the strongest spells we had been able to conjure. 

Hermione was talking to herself. “It doesn't make sense. Harry's parseltongue worked over the speakers.”

“It's heading down the South corridor!” Harry snapped. “Abner, go for the East corridor, and I'll take the West end. Ready – steady – go!” They both disappeared. Their icons blinked in on the display, flashing. They moved toward the center, and we knew they were using their periscopes to look around the corner.

We heard both yell “ _ Avada Kedavra! _ ” 

The screen lit with blinding green lightning bolt icons bordered in red – and then went wonky. It was like a sudden blizzard of multicolored snow, except for a dialog box that popped up, “ _**Sorceri Interdictum** _ **– magic is blocked in this area** **.** ” I had never seen that happen before.

The basilisk roared.

Bill yelled “Harry! There's an interference spell! Magic is blocked!”

“It's still alive!” Abner Proudfoot's voice echoed.

“Get back here – NOW!” yelled Kingsley.

“We can't!” came Harry's voice after a moment. “We can't Apparate. And I think it's coming this way. Abner – wait – don't look – !”

“Ahhh! I just saw its eyes, and I'm not Petrified.” Abner sounded very surprised. “It's coming!”

“Be careful!” Kingsley exlaimed. “Venom! Its fangs are deadly even without magic!”

“Harry!” Shouted Elliott. “If magic is blocked, the locking spells on the doors may be off – see if you can get into the courtroom – block the door with something!”

The screen looked like it was beginning to clear up, I could see things again, fuzzily. I sent the rooster crow to the transducer behind the basilisk, at the end of the South hall. The monster's icon on the screen stopped, and foreshortened.

“Harry! Abner! Watch it! The blocking spell looks like it's wearing off!” I yelled. “It's going for the rooster sound – go for the door!” But Harry's icon was already at the end of the corridor. Crashing noises started coming. I made the rooster crow again. The basilisk was at the South end of the hallway.

There was a big crash, and Harry yelled, “I've got the door open – come on, Abner!” Abner's icon was still on the other side, but it started moving across the center – and then stopped and suddenly became faint. We heard a body fall. The basilisk must have turned around. “He's Petrified! I'll get him!” came Harry's voice, and then “ _ Avada Kedavra _ !” The basilisk roared. Hermione screamed. The interference was back full on the screen and we couldn't see a thing. 

There were some confused noises, draggings, bumpings, and the sound of Harry's labored breathing – then the sound of a door slamming. After a moment, there was a series of heavy bumps and thumps.

“Harry!” called Hermione in a strained voice, “Are you all right?”

“I'm OK!” Harry's voice was faint, and I boosted the gain on the audio transducer over the door he'd gone through. “And I've got Abner. I'm piling chairs up against the door! I can't hear you very well!”

I boosted the level on the speaker-transducer at the opposite end of the hall. “Is that better?”

“Yeah, some, it's echo-ey, but I can hear you,” said Harry.

Bill spoke up urgently, “Harry, that magic blocking spell seems to be triggered by an unforgivable curse, but it wears off after a couple of minutes. We can tell you when it's gone, and you can Apparate again.”

“Right!”

“I know!” suddenly exclaimed Hermione. “I know what happened! Harry's voice opened the chamber from up here, but the rooster crow didn't work – it's not the speaker system, it's the recording! If we can get a live rooster up here – ”

I was watching the screen. “It's starting to clear, Harry.”

“Better wait til it's all clear,” said Neville, “don't want you to splinch yourself!”

“Ron,” said Hermione urgently, “you said something about getting a rooster. Do you know someone who has one?”

“Yeah!” said Ron. “The Fawcetts do, just down the road from The Burrow. Let's go!”

“Wait!” commanded Kingsley. “Hermione, you stay here. We need you. Neville, go with Ron.” The two of them DisApparated, going to the lobby to take the floo network.

“OK, Harry, it looks clear to me,” I called. “See if you can do magic – lift chairs with your wand or something.”

“Right!” came from Harry, followed by more thumps. “It works! I can move chairs with my wand! I'll grab Abner and be right up!” We all looked around – but nothing happened. Harry's voice came again. “I still can't Apparate! Nothing happens when I try.”

I started going through some pull-down menus, fast, and my hunch paid off. “Oh boy. It looks like there's an Anti-DisApparition jinx on levels...ten and below. I can't tell for sure – here's another note for the Research people – but it may be – I think – considering where I found it – this is a kind of block that won't just fade out. If I'm right, it will persist until it's released, or turned off, by some counterspell.”

“That's not good.” Kingsley shook his head.

“The question is,” said Bill, “is this something Voldemort did? Or is it some kind of protective spell that's been there all along for some reason?”

“I've never heard of anything like this, but then I'm only a junior –” Elliot suddenly interrupted himself, looking surprised. “-- that is, I  _ was _ a junior member of the Auror Department. Kingsley, are there any records of spells or enchantments related to this area?”

“I don't know,” admitted Kingsley. “But let's see if we can find out. They may be in my office, but they may also be here, or in the Magical Law Enforcement offices. I'll see what I can find upstairs. Elliott, you look in the files here....”

“And I'll search the Magical Law Enforcement files,” said Hermione determinedly. “I'll help you!” chimed in Bill.   
This caught Kingsley by surprise, but he liked it. “Good! But I'll have to take you there and open things up for you. Let's go, and meet back here in, say, half an hour...”

CRASH! Came from Level Ten. “He's found us!” Harry yelled. The screen was clear and the Basilisk's icon was against the door. I made the rooster crow on the opposite end of the T crossbar, and the basilisk began to move toward it. “I'll try to keep the beastie away from Harry, but I don't know how long it's gonna work.”

“Make that fifteen minutes,” snapped Kingsley. He, Bill, and Hermione ran out the door, heading for the hallway, and Elliott was right behind them. I could hear him banging file drawers and spilling folders as I watched the screen. When the basilisk started to move back toward Harry's end of the T, I suckered him all the way down the upright with more rooster crows. He smashed against that door for awhile, but the locking spells (and the great pile of furniture Kingsley and Bill had put on the other side) held and he turned back up the hall.

All this took a little while, and I was beginning to think the monster snake was moving slower than he ought to be. Elliott came back into the room as I had him up against the door opposite Harry's again. “There's nothing there – or at any rate, nothing I'm going to find at all quickly,” he said tightly.

Just then, Kingsley appeared in the room. “I found something! Elliott, go get Bill and Hermione. Where's the basilisk?” I showed him what was happening as I heard Elliott out in the corridor, yelling for the other two. They came on the run.

“Look at this,” said Kingsley, unrolling a small parchment scroll. “It was in my top desk drawer, but I'd swear it wasn't there before.”

I couldn't take my eyes off the display. “What's it say?”

Hermione exclaimed “That's Dumbledore's handwriting! I'd know it anywhere. Uhh – 'M.B. and A.D.J. Triggered by U.C. L10 & below, 3 January 1997. Counterspell: Master of EW – AD.'”

The basilisk was crossing the T again and I let the rooster sound come from the south end. The monster hesitated. The rooster crowed again, and it moved slowly into the South corridor. “It looks like the basilisk is movin' kinda slow – I don't know why...” Everybody looked at the display.

“I wonder if the killing spell wounded it,” offered Bill, “at least somewhat, before the block came down.”

“Perhaps,” said Kingsley, “but we won't experiment with that...unless we have no choice.”

Hermione and Elliot were studying the parchment. “M.B. - magic block, triggered by U.C. - unforgivable curse,” said Elliott.

“Yes,” agreed Hermione, “and A.D.J. - Anti DisApparition Jinx.”

“Makes sense,” put in Bill. “I didn't think there was any way to block an Unforgivable Curse, and I'd guess the only way he could do it – amazing man, Dumbledore – was to block all magic, but that couldn't be left in place for long so it wears off after a few minutes. Blocking Apparition to counter an escape, on the other hand, couldn't be allowed to wear off, it would have to be removed deliberately. But what's the EW?”

“The Elder Wand,” said Hermione. “It has to be.”

“When he wrote that,” Kingsley said, “the Master of the Elder Wand was Dumbledore himself. So he was the only one who knew the counterspell...”

“And he didn't pass it on to me,” came Harry's voice; he'd been listening. “Never said a word about it.”

The basilisk was coming North again and I tried a rooster crow from behind it. Instead of turning around, though, it stopped – and we heard a crash, and then another, and another. “It's trying the other doors in the South corridor. Are they well blocked?”

“There wasn't much furniture in those small rooms,” said Bill doubtfully.

“Where do they go? Oh! Wait...” I felt stupid as I zoomed the display out some. “Looks like an anteroom to the large courtroom...”

“Harry!” Bill, Elliott and Hermione yelled it together, and Elliot continued, “The other doors to the room you're in! Are they blocked?”

“Not yet!” Harry's voice was faint, and accompanied by a renewed series of thumps and crashes.

“Oh, where are Ron and Neville!” Hermione moaned. “They should have been back by now. Maybe I should...” She was interupted by a double  _ CRACK! _ as Ron and Neville suddenly appeared in the room, looking very seriously disheveled. Neville was clutching an extremely annoyed white-and-red rooster, which was craning its neck and trying to peck at anything in reach. Both were covered with scratches, their robes were torn and muddy, and Ron's head was dripping blood down the back. 

“ _ Ron! _ ” screamed Hermione “What happened? Are you – ”

“I'm fine!” snapped Ron. “Let's get this over with. I want to go home and ask Mum how you cook chicken stew!” He glared at the rooster, who glared back and lunged at him.

CRASH! The basilisk's icon moved, slowly and noisily, into the anteroom.

“Harry!” called out Kingsley, “We've got a live rooster! Hang on!”

The basilisk was moving around the anteroom. It was searching.

Neville set the rooster down, and it immediately started after him. “Help!” He jumped up on a chair.

“ _ Pedo immobilo! _ ” Hermione's wand was pointed at the rooster's feet, which were now stuck to the carpet. Neville slid down and collapsed in the chair. 

“Come on, chickie chick chick! – crow for us then, come on...” Ron's voice was silky but menacing. The rooster struggled to free itself and all its feathers seemed to stand out.

CRASH! The basilisk was battering the door into the large courtroom.

“Does anybody know how to make a rooster crow?” asked Elliott.

“He crows every day at sunrise,” said Ron. “Come on, crow, you little..”

CRASH! There were more bangs and thumps. Harry was moving chairs and things again. I suddenly remembered something, and dived into my files. The display went blank and then we were looking at a nightclub stage. A musician started to play a guitar riff, and the audience cheered and applauded.

“Ryan, this is not the time for...”

“Let it go!” I didn't think twice about interrupting the Minister For Magic. “Quiet everybody! Turn out the lights!” The room went dark except for the screen, which now showed the rooftops of the French Quarter, with streetlights glowing.

CRASH! CRASH! The basilisk was making progress.

The singer began,

_ There is a house in New Orleans –  _

On the screen, the stars faded, the sky lightened, and a glow suffused the horizon, as the sun came up over the Big Easy.

_ They callllllll the Riiiiiising Sunnnnn.... _

The rooster flapped its wings, and crowed.

The basilisk screamed.

_ And it's been the ruin –  _

The rooster crowed again.

_ – of many a poor boy, _

The basilisk made a strange noise, a gasping, choking, hissing which ended abruptly.

_And God...I know...I've won._

**************


	10. A Foggy Day In London Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle, Ryan moves into an astonishing hotel, and goes to meet his new assistant at Heathrow airport -- accompanied by three Weasleys.

We were still there when the sun really did rise.

When I turned off the playback and brought the Level Ten display back up on the screen, the basilisk's icon was not moving, not flashing, and showed as a pale orange with a grey border. “Harry!” My voice sounded hoarse. “It's stopped. And I think – it's dead,” I tapped the icon with my wand, and the dialog box now read **Basilisk (deceased) – Danger: Venom** **.** “Oh, yeah. It's dead.” After two or three breaths I said “Harry! You there?”

“Yeah, I'm here,” he sounded annoyed. “I'm still here. I still can't Apparate.” Make that frustrated. Everybody exhaled at once and, except for Kingsley, joined Neville by flopping in chairs. My eyes unfocused for a little while. 

“What was that, Ryan?” asked Bill. “The song with the sunrise?”

“It's a music video. I took it from MTV – that's a Muggle thing – just testing a video capture spell, you understand!” I blinked a couple of times. “A band my parents liked – a British band, actually...” 

“The Animals.” Kingsley managed a half smile. “Some of my best friends are serious music freaks. But that's enough musicology for the moment. We still have work to do.”

“Kingsley, sit down, won't you?” Hermione was honestly concerned. “You had a long day before any of this even started.”

“I don't dare. I'm older than you lot.” He shook himself, stretched, and took a couple of deep breaths. “Now. The first thing is to get Harry and Abner out, and get Abner unPetrified. Then – then...” He stopped, and looked at me. “Ryan – I hate to ask you to do more than you have – we...”

“We need to finish scanning the Ministry before people come back in the morning.” By this time, I knew enough about Brits in general, and Kingsley Shacklebolt in particular, to know when he wanted to be interrupted. “Yes, of course. No telling what other little nifty gifties Voldemort might have tucked away around here. But I would like a couple of things first.”

“Name them.”

“A cup of coffee.”

“Brilliant!” Elliott levered himself out of his chair and headed for the door to the outer office. “Coffee for everyone. I can take care of that!”

“And – when we can get there – I'd like to have a look at the basilisk. I've never seen one.” Getting there, however, seemed like a long process.

“Kingsley,” said Bill, “you and I had better start getting the stairway to Nine cleared out.” He started to rise, fell back, and added “After we've had a coffee.”

Hermione was behind Ron's chair, dabbing at the blood on his head with a handkerchief. “If only Dumbledore had written down the counterspell!” This caused Ron to say “Ouch!” and then “Dumbledore what? Where does he come in?” That's when he and Neville heard for the first time about the scroll Kingsley had found. When they examined it, Neville looked up with creases in his brow.

“This doesn't make sense,” he said. “It looks like Dumbledore enchanted this to appear in the Minister's desk if those spells were ever activated – right?” We all made noises of assent, except Ron, who said “Ow!” and Hermione, who said “Sorry.” Neville continued, “So there must be a reason for it. Dumbledore didn't do things without a reason. And he didn't do it just to claim credit, he never did that.”

Harry's voice came. “Read it to me, will you? I'd like to hear exactly what it says.”

“Right!” Neville read it off: “'Magic Block and Anti-DisApparition Jinx, triggered by Unforgiveable Curse, level ten and below, third January 1997. Counterspell, Master of Elder Wand, Albus Dumbledore.'”

“That  _ is _ weird,” said Ron, “because nobody knew he had the Elder Wand back then.”

“That's right!” agreed Hermione, “We didn't even hear about the Hallows until months and months later.  _ Why _ did that wonderful man always have to be so  _ cryptic _ ?”

“Maybe he wasn't. Maybe it's his name.” I just threw it out, off-hand, but it got a much bigger reaction than I expected. Everyone stared at me.

“Albus Dumbledore!” Harry's voice was still somewhat muffled; he hadn't bothered to dig open the door yet. “Nothing!”

“Was Dumbledore always the Master of the Elder Wand?” I asked.

“Since he took it from Grindelwald in 1945 he was – until Draco Malfoy disarmed him,” said Ron, “but Draco never realized what he had! Isn't that great, though? Draco Malfoy, Master of the Deathstick! And he didn't know it! And then of course Harry took it when...” He stopped abruptly. There was a moment of silence.

“Harry Potter!” came over the transducers, and a moment later –  _ CRACK _ ! - Harry was standing in the room. 

“Harry!” Hermione flew at him and tried her best to smother him.

“Coffee's up!” Elliott was standing in the doorway with a tray of steaming mugs. We all stood up, patted Harry on the back or shook his hand, and grabbed one. Somehow there were enough for all. We were drinking gratefully – it was much better coffee than Admiral Blackstone's, although I don't want to damn it with faint praise – when the sound of the lift came, and we heard Arthur's voice calling for Harry, who raised his voice. “In here, Arthur!”

A moment later Arthur appeared in the office doorway with still another red-haired young Wizard I hadn't met. He was powerfully built, with a broad strong face and lots of crow's feet around his eyes. Arthur was voluble. “Ah! Kingsley! We went up to your office and the whole level is deserted – the whole building is empty, for that matter. What in the world is going on? Ron and Neville came tearing through the house – Molly found spots of blood – terribly worried – Charlie just got in this evening, so he and I came to see if something was wrong...”

“We've had a bit of trouble this evening, Arthur, but it's all right now. You and Charlie are very welcome, however, as we can certainly use your help.” It took another cup and a half of coffee to fill them in, show them the Sniffer program, and catch everybody up to date. Neville and Ron had had a really frustrating time – not to mention a painful one – trying to catch the rooster, and if we all weren't so tired it would have been a sidesplitting story. At Harry's suggestion, with Kingsley's strong agreement, Hermione took them off to St. Mungo's to get their wounds taken care of. Abner Proudfoot would be all right where he was for now; it was not an urgent emergency, and it was safer to have them bring back a team from the Magical Hospital than to try and revive him ourselves.

Charlie and I were introduced. “Glad to meet you!” he said, shaking my hand firmly; his was strong and callused. “Dad's been telling me a bit about what's been happening. And it looks like you've been busy tonight – honestly, we don't usually work our guests this hard – not right at first, anyway!” He ducked out to take the rooster back to the Burrow and reassure Molly. The rest of us went down to Level Nine and started clearing the stairway.

Before long, Charlie returned, and when he pitched in the work went faster. Just as we got down to Level Ten, Hermione brought our walking wounded back (wounded no longer) with a young Healer, Dr. Caractacus Conway, who had been on call in the ER, and two burly orderly Wizards with a stretcher. “Just as well you didn't have to move him by side-along Apparition,” he remarked as the orderlies maneuvered him carefully into the lift. “Might have been all right, but you never know. We'll have him up and around quickly enough, though. He should probably have a day's rest before he comes back to work.” Harry told him to tell Abner that was an order from his boss, if he objected.

After the medics left I remembered about the basilisk, and Harry, Ron, Charlie and I went in to the anteroom to have a look at it. It was about fifteen feet long (“Rather less than half the size of the one in the Chamber of Secrets,” estimated Harry) and maybe two feet thick, and its fangs, still dripping venom, were long, sharp, and evil-looking.

That's when I got a nasty surprise: I recognized its skin. It was green, with a pattern that was unexpectedly familiar; with a coat of grey shoe polish it could make a pair of cowboy boots just like the ones I had seen in Dulles International Airport. When we all gathered back in Harry's office, I told them about that, and about the figure I saw in Diagon Alley.

“Now that's strange, mate.” Ron shook his head. “Definitely dodgy, I think.”

“It might be perfectly legitimate,” said Kingsley with a frown. “There's nothing illegal about a Wizard traveling here as a Muggle, and there's no reason why he should reveal himself to you, even if he had recognized you as a fellow Wizard.”

“Which he didn't, so far as we know,” agreed Harry. “And when you saw him in Diagon Alley – if it was him – you said he had his face turned away; he might not have noticed you.”

“Yeah, maybe,” put in Charlie, “but Ryan was standing in front of Weasleys' Wheezes, wasn't he? Tends to draw the eye, doesn't it? Mostly, though, what I'm wondering is, what sort of Wizard wears  _ basilisk-skin _ boots? And where do you get 'em?” 

Nobody had an answer for those questions, so it was agreed we'd all keep an eye out for tall Americans with long square chins wearing cowboy boots. I checked my Wemail, and found a message from Blackstone:  _ Meet BA Flight 1981 due at Heathrow 4 pm your time. _ That was all. “Must be sending somebody I know, or at least who knows me,” I concluded. “But we better get going on this survey, if we're going to finish by morning rush hour.”

At Kingsley's request, I did the scan from the top down this time. The top two floors were clear – a few items stored or on exhibit in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement showed menacing colors but were quickly examined and passed as harmless – and, thankfully, there were no more major surprises anywhere. We did find a boggart holed up in an old credenza in the Magical Games And Sports office, and a jar of pixies in the Control of Magical Creatures department, and a selection of things that were regarded as Frowned Upon, but not really dangerous, here and there. 

Ron, Hermione, and Neville went on home to get some sleep, and Harry sent Elliot home as well. “You'll have to get back early, I'm afraid, what with Abner out for the day. I'm going to have a good long lie down myself after we've made sure the Ministry's safe.” Now that Charlie was back, Kingsley arranged a room for me in the Wizarding Wing at Claridge's, and Charlie very kindly went home and got my bags moved over there. I didn't follow until just after six in the morning.

Claridge's Wizarding, as it's known, actually makes the  _ Ministry _ look like an abandoned farmhouse. The design, décor, and atmosphere is what is called “Restoration,” which was popular in the late 17 th century, and hasn't been changed since. The world-famous Muggle side next door dates from 1898, and the staff on the Wizarding side thinks it's so vulgar they don't even try to find an adjective. They just call it “the new part.” 

Because I was an Important Foreign Official Visitor (and my bill could be sent straight to the Ministry of Magic), I got what I'd call the full “B” treatment – “A” treatment being reserved for Heads of State, Royalty in any condition, and Bill and Melinda Gates. (I've always believed he must have known she was a Witch when he married her; he's a pretty smart guy.) When I emerged from the solid gold fireplace, Footwizards in purple-and-gold uniforms stepped forward on each side to brush me off. Purple and gold are the hotel colors, and they are everywhere. The famous checkerboard floor is made of alternating squares (or diamonds, depending on where you stand) of polished amethyst and pure gold. Great carved spiral columns of polished Amaranth heartwood inlaid with threads of gold hold up massive lintels, elaborately carved with scenes from Wizard history and Magical myths.

As I started forward, an American flag unfurled itself over the front desk, and a dozen Wizards in purple robes holding golden trumpets lined up on either side of the direct path, and played “My Country 'Tis Of Thee,” which I thought was a nice touch. The manager, in magnificently embroidered robes, met me in front of the desk, flanked by various staff members. I was welcomed formally and very graciously, but when they noticed I was falling-over tired, the ceremonies were concluded with dispatch and I very soon found myself in a small parade (half a dozen Wizards and Witches in purple robes with golden emblems, carrying golden candelabras, towels, and what looked like a cooking utensil but was called a “warming pan”) heading down a splendid hallway – carvings and gilt and ornately framed pictures everywhere. The people in the pictures mostly wore huge wigs and voluminous costumes. Ladies often showed very interesting necklines, and men must have been sloppy eaters in those days; they all wore fancy bibs under their chins. They mostly acknowledged me with bows and curtsies, and I nodded back as pleasantly as I could, but more than once I spotted some of the gals talking excitedly behind a spread fan, and then breaking off to smile at me as I passed.

My room was unbelievable. A fabulous Persian carpet (done in purple and gold), golden fixtures, splendid tapestries; the ceiling was one enormous mural of the night sky with a smiling full moon; and there was a four-poster bed with carved spiral woodwork that looked big enough to play Quidditch on. After making sure they understood when I needed to be called, and insisting at some length that I did not need any help undressing, the parade marched out the door and I hit the hay. Sorry if that last phrase has a flavor of  _ l _ _ è _ _ se majest _ _ é;  _ I was too tired to care. 

I was awoken by Dawn, breaking in a gorgeous, glorious, classical way at 2 pm. I was gently lifted out of dreamland by an orchestra which began with an almost inaudible violin note and slowly built up to a glorious sweeping melody full of hunting horns (I found out later it was the opening movement of Mahler's First Symphony). I noticed the ceiling showed beautiful fluffy clouds, songbirds, and the sun, just peeping over the crown molding above the sideboard – on which steamed a pot of coffee, which smelled heavenly and fresh. It was superb. Didn't even need sugar.

Sunlight streamed in the windows, although they showed dense fog outside. The water in the shower was the perfect temperature instantly. My robes were clean and pressed, contents of pockets neatly laid out on the writing desk, which had carvings on every inch except for a square of burgundy leather on the top, and a little gold plaque saying it had been a birthday gift to Louis XIV. My luggage was stowed and clothing hanging neatly in a closet somewhat larger than most New York City apartments, also elaborately carved, tapestried, and hung with art.

Freaked me right out.

I wished I was back at The Burrow.

Then I pulled myself together and told myself firmly that duty was duty, and this was a sacrifice I would have to make for my country. I set up my computer and checked the flight information at Heathrow. BA 1981 was still expected on time, but there were some delays due to fog.

Dressed (in my Muggle clothes), coffeed and downstairs, the Manager materialized from somewhere and suggested breakfast, giving the strong impression that he would be crushed, perhaps even suicidal, if I refused. It was an egg dish with a French name I couldn't pronounce, fit for the gods; what I'd call biscuits but they probably call something else, which were, with all the fresh butter, to die for; and endless rashers of crispy bacon. Afterwards, he came out from behind the desk when I approached, and I asked him about the best way to get to Heathrow. He explained that few Wizards and Witches used the airport, but Claridge's maintained a relationship with a small Bed-And-Breakfast hotel nearby; I could take the floo network there, and get a cab – missing all the Muggle traffic. When I told him that another USDM official was coming in and would need accommodations, at least for a while, he beamed at me so joyously I thought he might levitate.

I had him send an owl to the Ministry. It was a little disconcerting to discover I had to write the note in pure gold on purple parchment, but I wrote “ _ Kingsley – Claridge's Wizarding is incredible. I'm going directly from here out to meet British Airways Flight 1981 at Heathrow. Not sure about the timing, as flights may be delayed by fog. I have asked for a room here for whoever they send, and would like to make introductions promptly. Please let me know when would be convenient for us to come to the Ministry. Tomorrow morning, perhaps? Ryan _ ”

When I got to Heathrow, there was another surprise. Standing in the lobby looking up at a flight-status board, I heard a voice behind me. “Ryan! There you are. I hope we aren't late?” Turning, I found three familiar red-haired figures, dressed most astonishingly in sportcoats, bluejeans, white shirts, and extremely aggressive neckties. I must have looked amazed, because Arthur, Charlie, and Ron Weasley all grinned and struck poses.

“How d'you like it?” asked Ron. “Hermione helped us dress. Had to overrule her on the neckties, though – no color sense.”

“Do we look proper Muggles?” asked Arthur a bit anxiously. I assured them they looked fine, although the neckties might attract attention, especially Ron's which had a stallion embroidered on it – pawing the air, tossing its head, lighting up and changing color. When he looked disappointed, I told him not to take it off, just don't flash it around; people would probably just think he was an American. They had been waiting at the Ministry, expecting me to come there first, and when my owl arrived they went to Claridge's and followed me by the same route.

Flight 1981 was now expected at 4:15, so we had a little time to wait. The fog was clearing, and we strolled over to the vast windows to look at the airplanes. They had seen airplanes flying high above, but only now grasped the scale of the machines when they saw people next to them. I tried to explain how the wings provided the lift, once the aircraft was moving fast enough, but they were skeptical. “So if it were to stop in mid-air, it would simply fall?” asked Arthur. When I nodded he said “Terrifying!” and shuddered, without taking his eyes off a 747 that was taxiing toward the runway. We looked at the shops –  _ Boots _ alone could have easily kept Arthur enthralled for a week or more, and we practically had to drag him away from an ATM machine – and Ron figured out that people had wheels on their suitcases because Muggles couldn't simply levitate them. 

“This is an amazing place, though,” said Charlie.

“Amazing, right enough,” agreed Ron. Arthur was silent. Clearly he had so many questions that they'd caused a traffic jam in his brain. Charlie had to remind him twice to close his mouth. I learned that Kingsley had planned to send Arthur with me to the airport, but forgot to mention it yesterday; Ron and Charlie came along to see the sights – and, I suspect, to keep Arthur from complete paralysis in a Muggle technological paradise.

As we walked through the terminal, I told them about the secured gates. We wouldn't try to pass security (I had to convince Ron that just confunding them would not be a good idea at all) but would wait at the exit from Customs. “Whoever it is will have a Diplomatic passport, like me, which gets you straight through ahead of the rest.” After the status board displayed “ARRIVED” beside Flight 1981, we sat on a row of chairs, watching the Customs exit.

I was watching for someone I knew, or at least someone who was looking around for a reception committee. A young man emerged from Customs, and my eyebrows must have rocketed upward. He was a couple of inches shorter than me, had an athletic build, a long black pony tail, and a backpack. His skin was darker than mine, and his face was handsome, with high cheekbones, a prominent nose, piercing black eyes, and lines that could only be produced by laughter. He wore moccasins, jeans, a shirt with a multicolored pattern, a string tie, and a very familiar tan corduroy sportcoat.

“Holy mackerel!  _ Jamie _ !”

I jumped up and headed for him, and he broke into a grin as he saw me. He stopped and raised his right hand, palm out.

“How!”

“Easy, I just put it in – now wait a minute!” This was no time for schoolboy fun. I wanted to hug him, but I knew better; the People of the First Nations are not very demonstrative that way, especially in public. But I did take his hand in both of mine as we shook, and he thumped me on the shoulder.

“How are you? What are you doing here? I'm supposed to be meeting – ”

“Me.”

I could only gabble incoherent syllables. Then I saw his eyes narrow and remembered who would be coming up behind me. “It's OK, they're Wizards,” I said quietly. Turning, I beckoned the Weasleys forward, and then had to wait for a group of Muggle businessmen to pass out of earshot. “Arthur, allow me to present Doctor James Two Eagles Cogburn of the Cherokee Nation, a certified Healer of the American Magical Medical Association, and currently serving as–” I stopped and looked at Jamie “What are you, anyway?”

“ Mr. _ Undersecretary _ ,” he began, with a grin and raised eyebrows, “I am the new Chief of International Medical Liaison, Bureau of Foreign Wizarding Relations...” He paused as two Muggle ladies went past, pulling flowered rollie-cases. “...United States Department of Magic, on special assignment to re-establish and maintain the London Liaison Bureau, pending the arrival of permanent staff.” 

“Well, I'll be a blue-nosed gopher.” (Back in school, Jamie would have responded to that by taking out his wand and saying “Certainly. What size would you like to be?” but this time he let it pass.) I shook my head hard enough to rattle my brains back to semi-normal, and it began to dawn on me that he was my subordinate. I began to smile beatifically, and he screwed up his face because he knew what was coming.

“Just call me...Chief.”

“I  _ knew _ you were going to say that!” And we both broke up. Ron and Charlie laughed too, and Arthur grinned broadly. I wiped my eye and chuckled down to seriousness.

“It's really good to see you, Jamie. Especially because I only met these people a couple of days ago, but it feels like I've known them forever. I'm really glad I can introduce  _ you _ .” Jamie looked at them with new interest. “This is Arthur Weasley, special assistant to the Minister for Magic.” Jamie stuck out his hand, and Arthur, who had started to raise his in imitation of Jamie's gesture, grasped it with a look of relief. “And these are two of his many sons, Charlie Weasley and Ron Weasley,” I finished, nodding at each in turn. 

Greetings performed, Charlie observed “You know, the middle of Heathrow Airport isn't really the best place for a private conversation, is it?” We all agreed at once, and as Jamie had checked a bag, we headed down to Baggage Claim. Arthur was amazed afresh by the escalator (“...and without any Magic at all! It's hard to believe.”) and Jamie's large leather suitcase was one of the first to appear.

On the way out to the taxicab stand, I asked him if he'd had a good flight. “Very nice, actually. First Class seats are really comfortable, and the food was really pretty good.” I made a face, and a mental note to pick up some more Canary Creams for Loretta.

**************


	11. First Nations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After introducing him to his new friends and conferring at the Ministry, Ryan reconnects with his college roommate, Jamie Two Eagles Cogburn.

Back at the B&B, the cheerful middle-aged couple who ran the place seemed rather more impressed to meet Jamie (“How splendid!...never met a Red Indian before...do hope you like it here.”) than they had been to meet me. They left us alone in the parlor, as they called it, or parlour, as they probably would have written it, and as we got ready to dive into the floo network, Ron turned to Jamie and said, “Doctor? Can I ask a question, please?”

“Only if you call me Jamie.”

“Right!” Ron's face lit up. “Cool. Thanks, Jamie. Uh – I was just wondering what we should properly call you – I mean, people here are sort of used to referring to your people as Red Indians, to save confusion because we've rather a lot of the others, East Indians from India I mean, living here. But I don't think that's really proper, is it? Red Indian, I mean?”

“Oh, I say!” Arthur turned to Jamie. “I was wondering the very same thing myself. Quite right, Ron! Important to get started on the right foot, eh? 'Red Indian' isn't really the right term, is it?”

“No, it's not – but it's not really an insult, either. Today, it's most respectful to call us – collectively speaking – the People of the First Nations. That expression started in Canada, but it's catching on down in the US. And each Nation has its own name, like Cherokee, Iroquois, Lakota Sioux, and so on. But it's a long, formal expression and you do need something for ordinary conversation; and we really do resent expressions like 'Injuns' and 'Redskins.' Those are just racist words. 'Native American' is fine with me, although some of our people don't like that phrase because it includes the word 'American,' which is another European import, and those living in Canada object that it seems to imply they're part of the United States. Among ourselves, and with friends, we use the word “Indian” quite a lot, actually, from long habit and for convenience. And the 'Red' in 'Red Indian' certainly makes sense for you and doesn't make a bit of difference to me.”

“I see. It's true the word is a bit of a mistake.”

Jamie laughed. “I've heard about British understatement! Truth is, it is physically impossible, on a planet this size, to be farther off in your reckoning than the famous navigator who made that mistake was when he made it. I met a Navaho at Muva who has a tattoo that says, 'Columbus was a dumbass.' Say, I've just realized – Ryan, you didn't expect me, did you?”

“No I didn't. You wouldn't know anything about that, now would you?”

“Who me?” He tried to look innocent and failed spectacularly.

“Who else? You know, if this protocol stuff has something to do with tipping people off about what's coming down before it happens, I'm beginning to think better of it.”

“Waste of time, if you ask me – but since he didn't know I was coming, Ryan might not have mentioned me to you.” He looked a question at the Weasleys.

“No he hasn't,” said Arthur.

“But we were beginning to suspect the two of you'd already been introduced,” added Ron dryly.

“Well, I have mentioned dear old Indiana Wizarding U,” I admitted, “but not my roommates.”

“Aha! I thought that must be it!” Charlie put in. “How long?”

“Three years. Two in the dorm, and then we rented a house off campus with a couple of other guys for Jamie's last year.”

Jamie was nodding. “I was a year ahead of Ryan. And now that we're  _ diplomats _ , I think we ought to explain that we've always had a lot of fun mocking the Hollywood version – the general mass-media public notions, I mean – of Indian – ah,  _ Red _ Indian culture.”

“Including the way they're always presented as so solemn and serious, when they really have a  _ wicked _ sense of humor,” I agreed. 

“Well, I think it's going to be quite wonderful having you here, Jamie. And you needn't worry about diplomatic niceties,” Arthur smiled, “as we've very quickly got on to a first-name basis with Ryan. But I say, we'd better be getting along to the Ministry; Kingsley is waiting to meet you.”

“Kingsley Shacklebolt's Minister For Magic – pro tem,” I put in. “He's taken over to pick up the pieces, much like Admiral Blackstone. You'll like him.”

“Er, I'd really better be getting back to the shop to help George,” said Ron, a bit reluctantly. “Hermione's there now. But tell you what, I could take your things to Claridge's for you. I'd like to see that place again – the lobby was unbelievable!”

“Yeah, isn't it? Thanks, Ron, that would be great. Here – let me give you a note for the manager.” I found writing parchment on a desk in the parlor, and quickly wrote that Dr. J.T.E. Cogburn would need a room until further notice. Ron and Jamie's luggage disappeared, spinning, and then I led the way, throwing my floo powder into the fire and saying “Ministry of Magic!” loud and clear.

I think Jamie was as impressed as I was with the Ministry, although he maintained that reserve he generally shows, except among close friends. There was no doubt, however, that he and Kingsley liked each other at once. Kingsley sent one of those paper-airplane memos zooming out the transom, and a little later, Harry showed up, looking tired and preoccupied when he walked in.

When the introduction was made, Harry perked right up and was as delighted as Ron had been, readily offering his hand. But instead of grasping it at once, Jamie drew himself up and spoke a long sentence in Cherokee. It contained none of the few words I had learned in that language; the only thing I recognized was “Harry Potter.” Then he bowed, deeply, and came slowly back upright. We were all looking at him in astonishment. He smiled, and shook Harry's hand.

“I promised to give you that greeting when we met, Harry. I knew of your victory long before Secretary Blackstone told me.” That would have gotten our attention, all right, if it hadn't been completely focused on Jamie already. “I know I am among friends here, so I can speak of things which are – not generally known. Wizards have always existed among our peoples, just as they have among yours, but there was no need for secrecy about their existence until very recently – after the troubles at Jamestown, the Powhatans spread the word – and even today, many of our Muggles know some of our Medicine people have magical powers. But they almost never speak the truth to outsiders – Europeans. We are content that these things should be regarded as primitive superstitions. And it certainly keeps us in compliance with the International Wizarding Code of Secrecy!”

That much I already knew. But what he said next was news to me. “I heard about a great Black Wizard across the ocean from my earliest childhood. His power was felt, and we knew when it began to cross the sea. We knew there were those who fought against him, but we believed – I was taught – that if the Black Wizard prevailed, he would inevitably come, or send others, to attack us. That, in fact, was one of the reasons why I decided to become a Healer: the prospect of battles, or a war, against evil Wizards seemed to be drawing ever nearer.”

“Jamie,” I asked, “where were you about a month ago? I'm sure you know what moment I'm talking about.”

“I was back home, with my family, at the moment Harry killed the evil one. We all felt it. My grandfather said at once that the Black Wizard had died in battle.”

“Actually, I didn't kill him,” said Harry slowly. That got more expression of surprise out of Jamie than I had ever been able to elicit, and I felt a momentary twinge of envy. Harry continued, “I fought him, and a lot of others did too, but when it came down to just the two of us, he tried to kill me with the Elder Wand. That's an ancient Wand which has never been...”

“I know of that Wand. It is said to be almost as powerful as – well, let's not get sidetracked. How  _ did _ he die?”

“He thought he was the master of the Elder Wand, but he wasn't. I was. The wand refused to kill its true master, so the killing curse rebounded on him.”

Jamie pursed his lips. “There is much more I would like to ask you, Harry, but we will have time for that. For now, let me just explain that I greeted you with respect, and thanked you, because...when you saved your people, you saved us too.”

There was a moment when nobody knew just what to say, and then Kingsley spoke. “I should tell you, Jamie, that Harry could not have accomplished his task – could not have survived, probably – without help. From many people, but his principal helpers were Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom...and Albus Dumbledore.”

“Ron? Who I just met? I wish I had known. And I will look forward to greeting them all. Except...Albus Dumbledore. I heard it in your voice. He's dead, isn't he?”

“Yes, he is,” affirmed Kingsley solemnly. “He was a great Wizard, and Headmaster at Hogwarts School. He taught all of us.”

We spent a few minutes giving Jamie the bare-bones narrative of the final battles at Hogwarts. At one point, Charlie remarked, “Yeah, I was there for the Battle, but I'd left school before Ron and Harry started; most of the time I was off in Romania, taking care of dragons.”

“Dragons?” Jamie was delighted. “I've never seen one! They're almost extinct in North America today – what kind do you have there?”

“Several, actually, it's a special reserve for species preservation. We've got Hungarian Horntails, Welsh Green, Chinese Red – tell you what, why don't you come out and visit once you've got things squared away here? I was going to invite Hagrid, later this summer, and maybe you and he could travel together.”

“Hagrid?” Jamie's question was in an entirely different tone of voice. “Travel with a hag?”

That broke up everyone except Jamie and me, and we were both enlightened by Arthur, because the others were laughing too hard to talk. “Rubeus Hagrid, he's gamekeeper at Hogwarts, a great friend to all of us, and a great fan of, uh, monstrous creatures. We're laughing because there probably isn't anyone alive who is less like a hag than he is!”

“Another person I'm looking forward to meeting,” I said, “and we definitely want to get up to Hogwarts in the near future in any case. We do have quite a lot to do, Jamie – I'm sure you'll want to visit St. Mungo's Hospital soon, for one thing.”

“That's the Wizarding infirmary? Yes indeed. And while we're talking about our to-do list, the Secretary asked me to find out if you've found out anything about our people who are supposed to be manning the Liaison Office over here.”

“Ah! Yes. The Liaison Office. Well, actually, I haven't had a moment. Haven't even scanned it. We've been pretty busy, what with the basilisk and all.”

“Basilisk?” Now I felt better; Jamie's amazement was even greater. “Nobody's seen a basilisk in centuries.”

The rest of us just looked at each other. I finally said to Harry, “Would you like to, or shall I?”

“Oh, by all means, go right ahead.”

“Thank you. Jamie, we killed a basilisk on the bottom floor of this building, last night. Fifteen feet long.”

He was silent for a moment. “But they're supposed to be little things, rattler size...” It's not often you see a Cherokee being astonished; it takes something really unusual, like a reasonable decision from the Bureau of Indian Affairs. I couldn't entirely enjoy it, though, as I was afraid Jamie would feel embarrassed, later. Fortunately, nobody even smiled.

“To be fair,” said Charlie seriously, “nobody  _ had _ seen a basilisk in about four hundred years, until six years ago, when Harry killed a forty-footer at Hogwarts.” Jamie blinked twice, and stared at Harry with wide eyes. 

I said, “Welcome to Britain, Jamie. More surprises per square inch in this country than any place I've ever been.”

“I believe you. A forty-foot basilisk...Harry...how old were you then?”

“Twelve.”

Jamie stared. “How did you kill it?”

“With a sword.”

Jamie blinked four times, a record in my experience. “If you ever visit America, I know some people who would like to meet you. Very much.”

“Er – thanks – that'd be great. It may be awhile, I'd think...but I'll look forward to it.” 

Now it was Jamie's turn to shake his head as I had done earlier. “Basilisks! Every time there's a rumor of one, up in the Rockies or the Sierras or wherever, it always turns out to be a mistake, or a fraud. I thought they were extinct, or even mythological. But I must admit, that's a pretty good reason for not getting around to the Liaison Office.” 

“Yeah, I think the Secretary'll buy it,” I agreed dryly, and shrugged. “All I've done so far is to check at Gringott's, and find that the American vault there has been cleaned out.”

“Has it, then? That's interesting.” Harry looked at me. “If Voldemort recruited your people, and they've gone off with the swag...”

“We really ought to get after them,” I finished for him. “On the other hand, they've had a month's head start.”

We agreed that tomorrow morning would be soon enough, and made plans to start the investigation from Harry's office. Jamie and I would use the evening to catch up with each other. Back at the hotel, we found that Jamie's room was next to mine, and so as not to disappoint our hosts – including the ones in the paintings – he maintained all the grave dignity of Iron Eyes Cody until the parade left us in his equally-sumptuous apartment with two elaborate crystal steins of butterbeer, several extra bottles, and a selection of cheeses, on an ornate golden tray. We took out our wands and aimed them at our steins.

“Just like old times!” said Jamie. “Ready? One...two...three... _ gelusio! _ ” We said it together and the chilling charm dropped the temperature of both steins instantly to 37 degrees Fahrenheit. A nice film of condensation began to form on the outsides, and we clinked glasses.

“Ahhhhhh....that's the first cold beer I've had in, like, I don't know,  _ weeks _ I think.” When Jamie raised an eyebrow, I explained, “They serve it 'cellar temperature' over here, cool but not cold. It's good, it's fine, but  _ this _ is what I think of when I think of a beer.” 

“It's good beer, I must say. But that's enough alcohol for me, this trip.” He pointed his wand at the stein for a moment. Nothing seemed to happen, but I knew he had worked his usual spell that converted the alcohol into – something else, I'm not quite sure what, a combination of herbal essences that tasted almost exactly the same. I'd seen him do it many times. Many Native Americans avoid drinking alcohol; there's something in their physical makeup that tends to make them more prone to addiction than most people. Jamie had always been careful about that, and as a Wizard, he knew how to enjoy the taste and the social camaraderie without taking the risk. He took another long swallow and looked around. “And this room – the hotel – what a layout!”

“Just one of the benefits of working for the Great White Father in Washington.” Putting on my fruitiest public-speaker voice, I quoted, “We  _ respect _ you savages for your native ability to instantly adapt and survive in whatever godforsaken wilderness we move you to.”

That got a good long laugh from him, and he relaxed back in the spindle-legged, heavily carved, tufted leather wing-back armchair – which was amazingly comfortable for such an antique; I suspected the furniture in these rooms adjusted itself to each occupant. “It's wonderful to see you again. I haven't heard the Firesign Theatre in way too long.”

“I hear they're working on new albums, there might be one out next year.”

“Excellent! Did you ever find out which one is a Wizard?”

“No, and I've always wondered if the others know.”

We reminisced and caught up on old friends and schoolmates for awhile – who's married, who's split up, who's making a success at this or that, and who somehow managed to ram a broom through the window of the 57th-floor Boardroom of a famous Muggle corporation and got busted for FUI. (And heavily fined for all the emergency memory modifications that had to be done to security guards, secretaries, janitors and a number of very wealthy and prominent Board Members.)

After awhile we came back to the present, and I gave him a summary of the story I'd heard from Harry and the others. He knew about Horcruxes, but refused to tell me the Cherokee word for them, saying it was a word he never wanted to pronounce. Like me, he found the idea that someone could create  _ seven _ Horcruxes to be completely beyond anything he'd ever even heard of. But it did, he pointed out, indicate that Tom Riddle had been a Wizard of truly terrifying power, so his ability to project his influence across thousands of miles wasn't so surprising. Then I asked him, “You said something earlier about hearing rumors of basilisks in North America. I never have; I thought they were strictly an Old-World beastie.”

“Well, yes, they do seem to be. But there have been stories, from time to time, especially from Hopi and Navajo people – but as I say, none of them's ever been confirmed.”

“Maybe there's something to them after all.” I told him about the mysterious Texan with the basilisk-skin boots. He didn't know quite what to make of it either, but echoed Ron's sentiment that it was definitely odd.

“'Dodgy' – I like that word. Ron's right. But there's not much we can do about it. We can keep our eyes open, but we've got other things to deal with.” He drank butterbeer. “You know, one of the bigger surprises I've had so far over here is discovering how close you've become to these people in such a short time. That's not really like you, Ryan – but I'm not complaining! I like them already, and I'm even slower than you are to make friends. But look, I'm waiting to hear – what happened last night?”

I told him about the Sniffer program-spell, and our adventures on Level Ten and below. He listened raptly, refilled my butterbeer without being asked, and when I got to the end, he reached over and touched his glass to mine. “We are both warriors, my friend. My enemies are pain, and sickness, and death; yours are Black Magic and ignorance.” We drank, and he added with a sudden grin, “and using a music video of  _ The House Of The Rising Sun _ to kill a basilisk is classic, absolutely classic. I mean, you sicced The Animals on him!” We laughed, and then he told me how Blackstone had summoned him to ask about the Twisted Snakes hex, and how their conversation had gone far beyond what he expected. “He is a very persuasive man,” he said with a crooked smile.

“I've noticed,” I replied.

“Especially persuasive with my preceptors at Virginia, who have given me an open-ended sabbatical leave, and the opportunity to turn my experiences here into full course credits. But see here, I'm hungry. Where can we get some dinner in this town?”

We decided to see something of London, and discovered that the Street Entrance to Claridge's Wizarding opens on to a bathroom on the Muggle side, near a back entrance. The washroom attendant was a Squib, who made sure the coast was clear before letting us through. We were discreetly warned against trying the restaurant on that side, as the head chef was always yelling at people, but were given several recommendations for various places within a few blocks.

London was brightly lit, and busy with traffic – we couldn't resist riding on a double-decker bus, and got off somewhere in another part of the city, where we visited a pub called The Goat And Windmill. Jamie won fifteen “pounds” (as British Muggles call their money) at darts, to the discomfiture of a group of locals, who comforted themselves by remarking that it was, after all, quite natural for a Red Indian to be good at anything involving feathered missiles. I settled the bill with Dad's credit card, and we left.

A couple of blocks further on, we discovered an (East) Indian restaurant and I dredged up a joke from our days of making fun of old movies. “Whaddya think – Gunga din-din?”

“You are  _ so _ bad.” Jamie gave me a wicked grin. From somewhere, he produced a headband, which he donned, and a feather, which he stuck up in the back, and went into his Heap Big Chief routine as we entered. We had pulled this bit before. He spoke Cherokee and I pretended to translate, speaking to him with a few genuine Cherokee words and a lot of Cherokee-like sounds all strung together. The staff treated us with great respect, chattering to themselves in Hindi (I think) and serving our every whim with dignified alacrity. The lamb curry and chicken baked with a red sauce were excellent, and as we got up to leave, Jamie spoke a most impressive Cherokee sentence, and handed me the pound notes he'd won at the pub. I nodded gravely, murmuring “Poliomyelitis, calamari!” in tones of obedient agreement, and ceremoniously placed them on the table before we swept on out, heads high.

By this time we had no idea where we were, so we had to take a chance on Apparating back to the alley behind the hotel. Luckily, nobody saw us, and we headed up to our rooms. Before turning in, I sent a long Wemail to Secretary Blackstone, reporting Jamie's safe arrival and glad reception, and summarizing events. The moon was back in the ceiling mural, and it smiled at me as I raised my wand to snuff the candles.

***************


	12. Reconnaissance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry organizes British Ministry help for Ryan, trying to find out what happened to the former American Wizarding Liaison Office.

In the morning, dawn came with the usual symphony, and as I stood in my bathrobe pouring a cup of that lovely coffee, I heard a knocking on the door, but when I looked out in the hall nobody was there. The knocking continued, and I finally realized it was coming from one of the pictures – a still-life oil painting of a bowl of flowers sitting on a table, with a door in the background. I said “come in!” and the door creaked open to reveal a 17th-Century page boy, who I'd noticed in one of the portraits hung in the hallway. He stuck his leg out, put his arm across his middle, bowed, then straightened up and stood on tiptoe to see over the blossoms.

“Beg pardon, Your Excellency, but I am commanded by the Honorable Doctor Cogburn to discover if Your Grace has rejoined the living, and would welcome a visit from the Honorable Doctor.” He looked to be about 10 years old, and spoke nervously, as if he expected to be scolded, or even beaten. I tried to be reassuring.

“Ah – thank you for your courtesy, young man. What is your name?”

“I height Athelstan, your Excellency, Athelstan Priddy.” He looked at the flowers in front of him, and sneezed three times. “Beg poddon, Eggzellency! 'Tis springdime, and by dose wilt evah ahd adon betray bee...” He pulled a large lace handkerchief out of his sleeve and blew his nose loudly.

“Would it help you if I request this picture be changed to a bowl of fruit?” I asked.

“Yes, Your Excellency! I shall be greadly in your debt for such a kide blessing.”

“Very good. Please pass the request for me, would you? (He bowed very low.) What time is it?”

He hauled a watch the size of a lemon out of his pocket with some difficulty. “Close upon a quarter past sebben of the clock, Excellency.” He blew his nose again.

“And we have an appointment at nine. All right. Kindly go and tell the good Doctor that I shall receive him in half an hour, and if you will be so good as to inform the kitchen, we shall probably wish to break our fast at eight of the clock.” His speech pattern was getting to me. He bowed again and backed out, shutting the door in the painting with a creak and a bang. I heard three more muffled sneezes, each fainter than the last.

At five minutes past nine, we were on Level Two of the Ministry, walking in the door of the Auror Department. Mrs. Murdle looked up from a box of files at her desk, smiled a greeting, and said “Harry says go right on in!” So we did, to find a changed scene. Several filing cabinets had been brought in, and there were boxes of papers on top of them, and on the floor against the walls. Harry's desk was about seven or eight inches deep in files and stacks.

Harry looked up, blinking. “Good morning! Absolutely delighted to see you both. You're the perfect excuse to get shot of this lot for awhile and do some real work.” He took off his glasses, pinched his nose, leaned back, and yawned, before coming round the desk with outstretched hand.

Jamie and I looked at each other. “Harry,” I said, “it's probably undiplomatic of me, but, uh, did you get some sleep last night?”

“Oh, yeah, hours, don't worry about me – I'm fine.” He shook his head. “It's just that this business of rebuilding the department, nearly from scratch it seems, is turning out to be rather a bigger job than I'd thought.”

Harry put up the security shutters while I set up the computer and brought up the Sniffer display. It was the first time Jamie had seen it, so I demonstrated quickly. Then Harry said, “Right – so where is your Liaison Office?”

“I, ah – I don't actually...know.” By this time Elliott had joined us and met Jamie, and now everybody looked at me. “I  _ think _ I know – there's an address on file at the Department – but Blackstone thought it might be a blind. For a long time, the Liaison Office was in the American Muggle Embassy, but back in the 1970s the Muggle security arrangements got so tight that it was too risky to leave it there, so it was moved...and the person who supervised the move was none other than our old friend, Slimy Parboil.” 

I opened up a search box and typed in the address I'd been given: 96-B Mount Street. A small box highlighted in green, a couple of blocks east of Hyde Park. But a dialog box opened, saying  **Address Not Found** . Elliott had brought in a printed map, and he spread it out on the desk, saying “Wait a bit – let me just check that.” He tapped the map with his wand, and the area ballooned. “Yes, it's odd – seems to be some alteration of the street numbers – but here's 96-A, in the old numbering – and there's no 'B' shown.”

“Might be there anyway,” observed Harry, “if it's unplottable, like my house. Can either of you turn up 12 Grimmauld Place?” We both checked, and it wasn't there. “Right. Ryan, is there any indication of magical objects in that Mount Street neighborhood?”

I set the display to show the entire street, from Hyde Park to Berkeley Square. “Nothing, apparently – wait, there  _ are _ a few icons – nothing dangerous – showing up here, on the corner with Park...it's...the Brazilian Embassy. Probably the Brazilian Wizards have an office there, or perhaps it's antique things in a display, and the Muggles don't realize what they are. Let me go in as tight as I can on number 96...” I zoomed in all the way on the target, and the picture changed, subtly. “Wait a minute...wait just a minute! Here's something, it's just a line between the buildings, it's very thin, very faint, but it's...orange.” 

“Could you get better resolution if we were closer?” asked Jamie.

I thought about it. “Maybe...but I dunno. This program-spell has a range of a hundred miles or more, and we're only a couple of miles away here. Worth a try, maybe.”

“At any rate, it looks like a personal visit is definitely indicated,” Harry said. “But we've got to be careful – this is a Muggle neighborhood, and rather a nice one too.”

“I'd vote for 'careful' if it was all alone in the middle of a cornfield.” I remarked, “We don't know what we're going to find.” Everyone nodded.

“Night job,” said Elliott. We all looked at him. “More Muggle security, but fewer people,” he pointed out. “Security guards we can handle. Locks and chains, cameras and alarms and such – we've done 'em all before. It's the odd Muggle popping up unexpected-like that'll be the problem.”

“This will change our schedule,” said Jamie, “But it is always good to scout the enemy before you attack. We need not wait to do that. Does the Ministry have cars available?”

“Yes!” Said Harry at once. “And drivers.”

“A van – delivery van or something with a closed back – would be ideal,” I offered, “but I could work from the backseat of a car. Best if it had dark windows, though.”

About an hour later, I was seated in the capacious back of a Ministry Bentley, which nosed along Mount Street until the driver found a parking spot. It was a street of old buildings, full of curious (and pretty ugly) ornamentation. The ground floors were shops and businesses for the most part, but there were obviously living quarters, as well as offices, above. We parked only a few doors down from an entrance door squeezed between two shops, marked “96-A.” I had the Sniffer going, cranked up and focused as much as I could. Harry, on the curb side, and Jamie, on the street side, were watching everything and everybody.

There wasn't much improvement. The orange line was maybe slightly thicker toward the top. Pulling off a screenshot and settling it onto a piece of parchment held out by Elliott, I reported that, and added, “Dialog boxes are coming up empty, too.” I studied the display for a couple of minutes. “OK,” I said finally, “drive slowly past the door, and I'll get a screenshot as we pass, and a couple more as we pull away.” This done, we headed back to the Ministry garage, the entrance to which was in the bottom floor of an underground parking facility, and looked like a blank wall at the end of a corner parking space. A red sign on the wall said, “ **Reserved Parking – Violators Towed Immediately – No Exceptions.** ” The sign wasn't quite accurate; the Ministry did not use tow trucks. Strictly speaking, it probably should have read “ **Violators' Cars Will Be Turned Into Hot Wheels** ” or something like that.

Aside from a general familiarity with the neighborhood, the reconnaissance was a bust. We decided to do the raid – excuse me, Official Inspection – at about 3 a.m., and would take a car to the site as a mobile base of operations. As we were leaving, Jamie looked into Harry's face and said, “Harry, both as a Healer and as a friend, I have a request: get some sleep. Please. I'm prescribing an after-dinner nap for Ryan and me as well.” His manner was effective: Harry looked rebellious for about five seconds, then snorted, grinned, and nodded. On our way out, Jamie spoke to Mrs. Murdle, who shot an affectionate glance toward Harry's door and gave us a reassuring nod as well.

We had a bite at the Leaky Cauldron, and spent the afternoon in Diagon Alley. After a stop at Gringotts, where Jamie changed his money and I replenished my supply, we strolled down the crowded street, browsing and window shopping. A look around inside the Apothecary shop proved to be fascinating, and Jamie couldn't resist buying several things. Of course, we ended up at number 93. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes delighted Jamie every bit as much as I knew it would. Ron was there, and introduced Jamie (who already knew about Fred) to George. Business seemed pretty good, but during one lull we told them about the planned expedition.

Ron immediately asked if he could go along, and I replied, “Well...” I hesitated; of course the risk wouldn't be a factor for Ron, and he was 17 now, legally adult. After a moment's thought I decided to be diplomatic, so I faced the issue squarely, and in a forthright, decisive manner, passed the buck. “It's fine with me, but it's Harry's call, really.”

“Send him an owl,” suggested Jamie, “and tell him you hope he gets it before he takes his nap.” When he explained about Harry's tired look, Ron nodded worriedly; he'd seen it too. “And if he works all evening, I'll have to resort to Traditional medicine. My people know how to make someone sleep.”

“How do you do that?” Coming from George, I think it was professional interest.

Jamie looked solemn and fierce, glanced around, and said “Stake him out on a bed of goose-down, surrounded by poppies, with nothing to drink except warm milk and nothing to listen to except soothing music and the sound of the ocean. We can be a cruel people!” That cracked us all up, and Ron left to send the message. Then Jamie asked, “George, have you ever heard of Coyote?” (He pronounced it  _ coy-OH-tay _ .) 

George cocked his head and said, “Coyotes? Aren't they a sort of wild dog?”

“No – well, yes, they are – if you say ' _ ky-OH-tees _ ', or ' _ KY-oats _ ', as some do – but I was referring to Coyote, the Trickster. He is a very powerful spirit, and my people have known of him forever. Some say he created us. He can change the course of a river, or put a mountain in your path – or take it away. He's brilliant, mischievous, and sometimes infuriating. We have many stories about Coyote, and I think he would feel welcome here.” 

A couple of boys in their mid-teens came into the shop at that point, and George went over to talk to them. One of them bought a Skiving Snackbox, and when they walked out the door the other one suddenly let out a howl as a crocodile skull, which had been sitting on a shelf, flew through the air and bit him squarely on the left buttock. George hurried forward, saying “All right, what is it this time?” and the skull answered in a slightly muffled voice (it was talking with its mouth full) “Dung bombs!”

“Thanks, Cheops!” George made the boys turn out their pockets, and charged them for a half dozen dung bombs and insisted they buy a small jar of Bruise Removal Paste. “Well at any rate, that'll do you some good! I'd appreciate it if you'd just pass the word, it's not  _ safe _ to shoplift here. Off you go!” When he turned to us, he found Jamie stroking the crocodile skull right between where its ears would have been. “That's old Cheops, we found him when we went to Egypt. I think he likes having something to do. Amazing place, Egypt.” 

George was telling us of the trip his family had taken a few years ago, on his father's winnings, and between customers we drew him out on some truly astonishing things they'd seen. Muggle archaeologists haven't even scratched the surface out there. Jamie and I were agreeing with total sincerity that we'd love to go there some day, when Ron came back. It was near closing time, and I asked if they had dinner plans. George did (with someone named Angelina – he let it slip but neither Jamie or I made any comment) and I said, “No problem, take a Rain Check.”

“Rain check?” he asked. Ron looked puzzled too.

“That's baseball talk,” said Jamie with a chuckle.

“What's baseball?” asked Ron.

“It's an American sport – Muggle game – that, unlike Quidditch, can't be played in the rain,” he explained.

“Huh – wimps,” George said disparagingly.

“Well, it's probably not your kind of thing,” I offered, “No magic, nobody flies – it's something like cricket, only slower.”

“I don't believe it!” said Ron with a shake of his head. “There's nothing slower than cricket.”

We all laughed, and I said, “Anyhow, if you go to a baseball game and it gets rained out, you can get a Rain Check, which gets you in for free when the game is rescheduled. So it's a promise to take you there, sometime later on.”

“Cool! Thanks.” George smiled, and went off to start shutting things up, but Ron stayed with us, saying he was going to meet Hermione and decide about dinner then.

Jamie and I looked at each other. “What was it you used to say?” he asked.

“ _ Carpe _ de old  _ Diem,  _ dere !” 

“Latin in a Brooklyn accent. That's my kemo sabe!” He turned to Ron. “Why don't you go get Hermione and join us for dinner at Claridge's Wizarding?”

“Oh, wow, that place is...” Ron hesitated and I jumped in to reassure him.

“As our guests, on the Ministry – or the Department – we can let them fight about it. Perfectly legit. We're under instructions to learn as much as we can about your situation over here, and I did accept a personal suggestion from the Minister to talk to you two about it, among others.”

“And since we're all going to get to bed early tonight,” Jamie added pointedly, “It's an efficient use of our time.” He looked at me. “Were you introduced to Crassus Knickerbocker down in Accounting before you left?” I nodded, and rolled my eyes. Crassus was the hardest-eyed bean-counter I'd ever met, and completely unaffected by the Parboil and his cronies, it would seem. Office gossip maintained that was because he was so completely devoid of humanity already, they thought he was one of them.

“Well, come to think of it, what Hermione would say if I didn't at least put it up to her...” said Ron, rolling his eyes. “You're on, mate – and thanks!”

****************


	13. My Dinner With Wizards (And A Witch)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan, Jamie, Ron, and Hermione enjoy a sumptuous dinner at Claridge's Wizarding, and learn about each other. Then it's time to get ready for action.

Dinner – I mean, supper – at Claridge's Wizarding was excellent, and turned out to be a very efficient use of our time. We learned a lot. Hermione was wide-eyed at first, as we took in the magnificent lobby, but Ron's attempts to play the jaded aristocrat, to whom all this splendor was the merest routine, were so preposterous that she started giggling, and we all busted up laughing. I asked for a private dining room, which was (I think) simply conjured up on the spot – certainly the door to it was. It was a beautifully paneled little room, with inlay work all around, just the right size for a table with four very comfortable leather chairs. The table service was gold and crystal, on a pale purple tablecloth, and a golden chandelier with about fifty candles lit the room beautifully, but without heat or smoke.

We ordered from menus made of stiff golden cloth, embossed with purple lettering. After pouring wine for Hermione, apple juice for Jamie, and butterbeer for Ron and me, the waiter withdrew, and I pulled out my wand. “Let me just make sure we're completely private here...” I flicked the wand at each of us, drew an imaginary line around the borders of the room, and pronounced, “ _ Sermo phono inconditus _ !”

“What's that?” Hermione immediately wanted to know.

“It's a security jinx I learned in Auror training,” I explained. “Anything we say now will be incomprehensible to anyone outside this room, or to anyone listening to our conversation via some device, whether magical or Muggle. It will sound like speech, but will have no meaning.”

“Cool!” said Ron, “then it'd block Extensible Ears, too?”

“It certainly should,” I answered, “although I haven't actually tested it.” Hermione wanted to know how to do it, so I taught them. “When the waiter comes in, he'll be within the perimeter, so we'll sound normal to him. In a crowded room, though, you can make the perimeter really small, just big enough for two heads.”

“This is excellent,” approved Hermione, “better than a Muffliato Charm, really, because that makes a buzz in your ears, and anybody familiar with it will know somebody's hiding something. With this, they can't be sure. We haven't heard of it before. Of course we haven't had Auror training, not formally. I'm sure Harry doesn't know – you really must teach it to him.” I promised to do so, and then she added, “And if you're ever worried about lip-readers, I know a charm for that.” Pulling out her wand, she pointed it at her lips and said '' _ Labiae Confundum _ !” And sure enough, her mouth movements then had apparently no relationship to her speech. We had to explain lip-readers to Ron (“No, really? Weird!”), but she taught us the charm in a few minutes. Then the door opened, and food began to arrive.

For awhile we were entirely attentive to the wonderful turtle soup and our various entrees, but the conversation soon came back and turned to Harry and Hogwarts. Jamie and I heard a good many new details about life at Hogwarts, and especially about Cornelius Fudge's disastrous attempt to suppress the news of Voldemort's return, and the incredibly nasty, sadistic Witch he'd sent to control the School, Dolores Umbridge, who had actually been given the title of “High Inquisitor!”

“Kind of reminds me of what happened to us in 1776,” I said mischievously.

“What – that's when your top Wizard, Franklin, gave up on us and went home, and you lot started a war against us, and decided to go off on your own, isn't it?” Ron asked.

“Yes, of course,” said Hermione, a little coolly. “Just what do you mean, exactly?”

“Well, I got American History twice, once in Muggle School and again at I-WU, so I got a handle on the subject from both points of view. Back in 1776, almost nobody in America, Muggles or Wizards, even Ben Franklin, really had any big problem with being British, or with the British people, or poor old King George the Third, for that matter, either.”  
“What d'you mean, poor old?” Ron was indignant, but Hermione calmed him down. “No, Ron, he's right, George Third was the one who kept going mad every so often; they'd find him talking to his rosebushes or something. Very sad, actually.”

“My point was simply that there were certain people in the British Government at the time whose decisions – however good their intentions might have been – whose policies were...well, pretty hard to take, on the receiving end. Seems to me that people at Hogwarts were also driven to rebellion by a load of official crap dumped on their heads.”

“Oh – I see what you mean.” Hermione smiled at me, then grimaced and shook her head. “Dolores...” She started to say something and visibly shut herself up. “Umbridge! And all her so-called 'Educational Decrees!' The word 'crap' is a very diplomatic way of describing  _ them _ . I've never thought of it that way, but in the sense you mention, I think you're quite right.” She smiled impishly. “And we had a Declaration of Independence at Hogwarts, too!” 

“Oh yeah – Fred and George!” Ron exclaimed joyfully, and then repeated, in a different tone of voice, “Fred and George...”

“We all seem to have had some difficulties declaring our independence from each other,” said Jamie, diverting Ron's attention with his usual perceptive quickness. Ron and Hermione were looking at each other; they didn't see when I pointed a finger at him, and inclined my head with a wry expression. He gave me a tiny nod and continued, “but don't leave us in suspense! What did Fred and George do?”

Harry had mentioned this incident with great admiration, but hearing it from Ron was a treat. He was hilarious, bursting with pride at his brothers' derring-do. They had declared outright war on High Inquisitor Umbridge one afternoon (to give Harry a chance to sneak into her office, Hermione put in) and caused chaos school-wide. They may well have had some fellow-travelers, once the fun started, because the number of things they were blamed for – or rather, credited with – is too many for even a pair of twins. Various (deserving, for the most part) people were covered with stinksap, pyrotechnics erupted everywhere, the corridor in front of Umbridge's office turned into a swamp, and they led her on a merry chase, along with some students she had recuited as her “Inqusitorial Squad.”

“Brown-nosing little bastards,” I hadn't thought I was muttering aloud, and was embarrassed when Hermione asked what that meant. Jamie was vastly amused. All I could say was, “Well, uhhh...think of it this way. If you kiss somebody's butt hard enough, what color do you think your nose is gonna be?”

Hermione dissolved into laughter, followed by Ron, after a moment when he looked like he thought he should start blushing. He wiped his eyes, and finished the tale. “And when they finally got cornered, with everybody watching, Umbridge announced she was going to have Filch flog them.”

“Argus Filch, he's caretaker at Hogwarts,” supplemented Hermione.

“And they didn't turn a hair, cool as icebergs both of them, and just said, 'Don't think so, time to go out and try ourselves in the wider world,' or something like that. Did I tell you that Umbridge had chained their brooms to the wall? Well, she had, but their summoning charm was strong enough to tear the chains out by the roots, and they got on their brooms and flew off.”

A summoning charm strong enough to tear iron out of stone got my respect, and Jamie's; I saw his eyes widen. But Ron wasn't finished yet. “It's sort of a legend at Hogwarts, I guess, and you'll hear people say they dive-bombed Umbridge with dung bombs on their way out and things like that, but they didn't, really. But as they left, they  _ did _ tell Peeves – he was there, he's the school poltergeist – to give 'er hell from them, and he actually  _ saluted _ as they flew away!”

“They gave  _ orders _ to a  _ poltergeist _ ?” Jamie was deeply impressed. 

“And he obeyed them faithfully,” chortled Ron. “I mean, how would you like to have a poltergeist following you around everywhere, making loud farting noises every time you tried to speak?” Jamie and I cracked up simultaneously, and Ron watched us with a huge grin.

The twins' spectacular exit had proved the signal for a general student revolt, taking the form of a sort of guerrilla war of pranks, disruptions, and magical booby traps. The members of the “Inquisitorial Squad” kept being carted up to the Infirmary with embarrassing magical maladies, and both Jamie and I were awed by the sheer imaginative scope, as well as the effectiveness, of the “Skiving Snackboxes” created by the Weasley twins. Even the teachers went out of their way to avoid helping Umbridge, and got lots of practice “turning a blind eye” to things. She had actually  _ forbidden _ the teaching of any effective Defense Against The Dark Arts, and students had banded together to learn on their own. 

In between bites of prime rib (done to melt-in-your-mouth perfection), I remarked “You know, when Harry was telling me about Dumbledore's Army, he mostly talked about how everybody pitched in and worked hard, and how much people improved once they had a chance to do practical exercises. Especially Neville, he went on at some length about how much Neville improved.”

“That's true,” Hermione agreed, and Ron nodded vigorously, his mouth full of wild duck, roasted with shallots and tarragon. She went on, “Neville was always so clumsy and forgetful – I mean we always liked him, he's such a good person really, but sometimes it seemed as if he just couldn't get  _ anything _ right – until Harry started teaching us.”

“Harry didn't say very much about his own part in things, other than he tried to help people.”

“He wouldn't,” said Ron, swallowing the last bite with a blissful look on his face. “This duck is amazing, brilliant suggestion, Hermione.” She smiled at him as he took a healthy slug of butterbeer. “He's not one to put himself forward, Harry. But honestly, without him it would never have happened. He'd faced Voldemort, beat him more than once, and it was him telling us lot that we could do it that made us think we could.”

“Yes it was.” It was Hermione's turn to nod emphatically. “Harry turned out to be a wonderful teacher, he really did, and we all discovered that we could do a lot more than we'd thought we could, once we had the confidence to try. Neville's self-confidence grew by leaps and bounds during those lessons, and it's never left him. He's stopped being clumsy.”

“Yeah, he has. Well, mostly, anyhow. Remember when we first met him, he told us his family was afraid he'd turn out a Squib?”

“That's right, he did!” Hermione tossed her head wistfully. “I'd forgotten. He was afraid he wouldn't be much of a Wizard, but he's turned out to be a very powerful one.”

“Yeah, he was pretty pathetic that first year, wasn't he? And now he fights like a lion. Remember how he took off old Nagini's head? Whack!” Ron recalled Neville's use of the Sword of Gryffindor with a grand gesture, which sent his butterbeer mug flying against the wall, where it shattered. That brought our waiter in (the privacy charm didn't do anything to impede the sound of breaking glass) who cleaned up the mess with efficient aplomb as Ron went pink in the face and said “Sorry about that!” while the rest of us tried not to grin.

By this time, Hermione had finished her souffle, Jamie had polished off his genuine, perfectly poached Dover Sole (“Never had fish quite like this. Delicious!”), and my plate was down to a few small puddles of  _ au jus _ . “What's for pudding?” Ron asked the waiter, who flicked his wand and caused small golden cards to appear in front of each of us.

“Look at this,” I said, “you offer Baked Alaska?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the waiter, “it's something of a specialty of the house.”

“May I suggest we share it, as an American treat?” Ron and Hermione looked at each other and then at me; it was plain that they didn't know the dish. But they quickly nodded, and Jamie gave me a thumb's-up. The waiter returned in about two minutes, with an assistant pushing a golden cart, upon which lay a large lump of Neapolitan ice cream on a salver, a freshly-baked spongecake, and a bowl of meringue. He nodded at the assistant, who waved his wand, and the spongecake divided itself neatly into irregularly shaped pieces, which fitted themselves over the ice cream like a jigsaw puzzle, and fused into a solid mass. Another wand gesture caused the meringue to coat the outside, building itself up into a particular shape.

“Denali!” said Jamie in surprise.

“A precise replica of Mount McKinley,” announced the waiter with pride, “in Alaska – the tallest mountain in North America.” The assistant stepped back, and the waiter poised his wand with an imperious gesture. He paused for effect – and got it; we held our breath.

“ _ Dulcis Incendio _ !” 

Music began, an intricate orchestral fanfare, building up with one cadenza after another, each more elaborate and ecstatic than the last.

Flames – tiny, separate, dancing flames – erupted from the tip of his wand and began to multiply and change and dance across the surface of the meringue. Literally dance, because they had become scores of tiny dancers with legs and arms moving in an exquisite choreography, swooping and spiraling and forming ever-melding patterns across the whole surface of “Mount McKinley,” (or rather Denali, its Inuit name) perfectly in synch with the music.

Mist began to form around the base, which thickened into miniature clouds, swirling and settling into place just as the fanfare came to its climax, and the dancing flames joined themselves into one foot-long flame over the mountain's summit. This flame bowed towards us, then twirled, spun like a drill, elongated, and launched itself to the ceiling in a golden fireworks display as the music ended. The Baked Alaska stood complete, rising from the clouds, toasty golden brown at the base and shading most realistically toward the pure white of snow on the peak.

We burst into applause.

* * * * *

This time, dawn came at 2 a.m., as arranged, but it looked just the same, except that when I peered out the window the sunlight was apparently streaming in through, the stars were out. After a quick shower and a couple of mugs of that lovely coffee, I was nearly awake when I met Jamie in the lobby and we took the floo network to the Ministry. In the Atrium, we found Harry and Elliott waiting for us.

“Well, we managed to get about six hours' sacktime,” Jamie said cheerfully. “How'd you do?”

“Pretty well.” Harry's reassuring tone was undermined somewhat by the yawn he was trying to stifle. Elliott looked more alert; he had gone home as usual, while Harry had stayed and “kipped” (another Britishism, meaning crashed, sacked out, or grabbed some shut-eye) on the couch in his office. I saw him shoot Elliott a grateful look, and suspected that he had been only just now woken by the pony-tailed Auror. It was hard to tell, though, because Harry's hair always looks like he just climbed out of bed. Jamie was looking resigned, and Harry was saying something about wishing for a cup of coffee, when green flame burst from the next fireplace over and Bill Weasley emerged, brushing at his robes.

“Good morning all,” he said with a cheerfulness to match Jamie's. “I understand there's a chance I might be able to earn my keep today – a little birdie told me.”

“Thanks for coming, Bill,” said Harry at once, blinking several times and straightening up a bit. “On such short notice. Sorry I didn't get the owl off earlier. We don't really know quite what we're going to find, and I reckon...” He broke off as green flame erupted once again on the other side, and out stepped Ron – and Hermione.

Harry was clearly surprised, as he said, “Hi Ron...Hermione! Er...I didn't – you didn't...”

“Hi Harry,” she said cheerfully, ignoring his confusion. “Your owl came when we got back to the Burrow, and I didn't want to send another message and wake you up...” she gave him a pointed look, as he was stifling another yawn, “...so I thought I'd just come along. Here, I brought coffee...” Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a thermos bottle that looked too big to fit inside, and followed it with six assorted china mugs which, taken together, were definitely too big to fit inside the small cloth handbag.

The lobby was deserted at this hour, except for a sleepy wizard at the gate, down at the other end, so we discussed our plans in low voices as we absorbed Hermione's coffee. (It wasn't bad at all, really, although I thought it had a slight flavor of Listerine. I hoped it was Listerine.) The expedition was my responsibility, but I made it clear that Harry was in charge.

“The United States Embassy is legally American soil, Harry, but this isn't. Or at any rate, I can't prove that it is. Your people haven't found any official acknowledgment of extra-legal status in the Ministry files; I Wemailed the Secretary last night, and he confirmed that they have still not found any records of this place in the Department files.”

“That's odd,” said Harry, “they made the move with official permission, didn't they?”

“Oh yes, there's correspondence in the files about the need to move, and Parboil was fully authorized to do it. But there's no record of the usual diplomatic courtesy correspondence about the status of the property. And here's the oddest part: after the move was made, the actual location doesn't appear anywhere in Department of Magic records. I would have been here sooner if it had. Blackstone was so intrigued by this that he had massive searches made in all related files for any information about the Liaison Office in London. There was almost nothing. They found the address – nothing more – in a scribbled note in Parboil's handwriting. It was written on the back of something, if I remember right; anyhow, Blackstone thought somebody had cleaned out the files; the only thing we found was apparently overlooked.”

“Apparently.” Hermione was skeptical.

“Right,” I agreed. “That's why we're here this morning. Only one way to find out. We do, though, have a definite indication of  _ something _ magical at this location.”

“You think it's hidden like Grimmauld Place?” Ron asked.

“Well, yeah, that's sort of what it looks like,” Harry replied, “A magically hidden, unplottable building and a Fidelius Charm. But if that's what it is, then we shouldn't be able to get inside.”

“Yeah, right – none of us is Secret-Keeper.” Ron shook his head. “Ryan, any idea who the Secret-Keeper would have been?”

“Not one that's likely to help any. The only other information I have comes from a single record, dated last year, found in the Accounting department. Again, it  _ might _ have been overlooked. But it did give the names of three Wizards assigned to the Office: Palindrome Cutpurse Joey was listed as Comptroller – he's the one who cleaned out the vault at Gringotts – on  _ April sixth _ , by the way – well before the Battle of Hogwarts.”

“That's interesting.” Bill's thoughtful comment spoke what everyone was thinking.

“Damocles Wright was Deputy Liaison Officer, and the Liaison Officer In Charge was Bangarulingam Fangboner.”

“You're making that up.” Ron pointed a finger at me.

“No, Ron,” said Jamie, “Ryan knows perfectly well that if I thought he was, he'd be hanging in the air upside down at this very moment. A name like that! I mean – well anyway, it's real, the Secretary told me too. Fangboner was Parboil's assistant for years until he got sent here, and the Secretary said he was known in the Department by several nicknames, of which 'Bangfang' is the only one suitable for a family audience.”

“So to answer your question, Ron, the Secret Keeper could be any one of those three, but it doesn't have to be. It could have been old Slimy, in which case we're out of luck.” I shook my head. “Harry, after this much time, I'd be amazed if you found any of those guys. They could have had TAPKeys and come back to the US, or gone almost anywhere, and anyhow it's entirely possible that they came down with a bad case of dead when Voldemort went. But anything you could turn up would be a big help.”

“Right. We'll have a look,” promised Harry, “but I reckon you're probably right.”

“But that doesn't get us any closer to getting into the building,” Hermione pointed out.

“There may be a way,” said Jamie. “Because Harry's place does  _ not _ register on the Snifffer, but this place  _ does _ . We don't know why – yet.”

“That  _ is _ strange!” Hermione 's brow creased.

“If an unauthorized person should get into the place, they'd become a Secret-Keeper, wouldn't they? And then they could tell anyone, I think,” said Elliott.

“I'm not so sure,” answered Hermione. “I looked up Fidelius Charms in  _ Spells To Keep Secrets And Spells To Find Them Out _ ...” Behind her, Ron rolled his eyes. “...and it didn't mention unauthorized people. I do remember that if a Primary Secret Keeper dies, any Secondary Secret Keepers will all become new Primaries.”

“Yeah, but what happens if all the Secret Keepers cop it, and there's nobody left alive who remembers?”

Ron's question stopped us – we all looked around, and it was obvious nobody knew. “If somebody did find it, they wouldn't be bound by the Fidelius Charm.” Hermione said. “That's why we abandoned Grimmauld Place last year, the risk of that I mean.”

“That was after one of the Death Eaters spotted us on the doorstep – but an abandoned location isn't very likely to be found if it's unplottable and hidden,” pointed out Harry.

Elliott said in an awed voice, “Does this mean that there may be hundreds, perhaps thousands, of forgotten hidden places all over Britain?” The idea made everyone blink.

“There may be ways of finding such places.” That made everyone look at Jamie, and he smiled. “The Navaho people have great skill in concealment magic. All of their Wizards and Witches have some secret place, it's traditional, and my Navaho friend in Virginia told me of a method they use for just this purpose, when one of them dies without leaving a Secret Keeper. I think their magic works the same way as the Fidelius Charm, or close enough, that it may work here. I am prepared to try, if it will help.”

“Thanks, Jamie!” Harry nodded at him gratefully. “It's very likely you'll get your chance. Now. Here's how we'll set it up...”

Elliott and Kingsley had arranged for two Obliviators and two members of the Invisibility Task Force to enter the street ahead of us, put out the street lights, put freezing charms and such on alarm systems and security cameras, and stand by in case we had trouble with Muggles. We would arrive (with the Sniffer going) in a second Ministry car, camouflaged with a Disillusionment charm. We'd do a complete visual search of the outside of the buildings, front, roof, and back. If that drew a blank, Jamie would try his Navaho spell.

When I said he could run the computer as well as I, and I'd go out with the others to do the visual inspection, Jamie objected with a grin. “Hey, you got that backwards. Everybody knows Indians make better scouts! White guys sit around back in the Fort, waiting for reports and planning their next land grab.”

“Nice try, Jamie, but Heap Big Chief leads from the front.”

“Right you are. I certainly shall.” Harry's look was friendly, but definite, and I vowed to stop thinking of him as a seventeen-year-old, effective immediately. “Actually, Ryan, I think Jamie has a point. We want the most experienced operator working the Sniffer.”

“You da man, Harry.” When he looked at me blankly, I added, “that's American for 'Yes Sir, Roger, Wilco' and 'doggone it' all rolled into one. But if we do find the place, I'm going to have to go in.”

Hermione asked how I would tell them if something changed on the Sniffer display, suggesting that maybe I could send a Patronus, but I said “Got just the thing – Jamie?” and both of us held up our cellphones. Ron and Elliott hadn't seen cellphones before (Elliott had, once, on a raid, but hadn't known what it was), and after a bit of explanation, immediately saw how useful they were going to be.

“Maybe my Dad's right about some of this Muggle stuff,” Ron said wonderingly.

****************


	14. Office Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ryan mount a joint British/American raid on the last known address of the missing American liaison team...and find a shocking mystery.

When the car pulled up on Mount Street, there was plenty of room to park right in front of Number 96. The whole area was dark and quiet; the moon was just a sliver, and it was cloudy. The street door we were interested in was the entrance to a narrow brick-fronted building. It had a carved stone door frame with an arched top, and a fanlight with the number 96 etched in the glass. It sat between an upscale-looking men's tailor shop and an equally genteel art gallery, both of which were closed and dark, and neither of which showed any evidence of magic on the Sniffer. The display was exactly the same as it had been earlier, so Harry, Jamie, Ron, Hermione, Bill and Elliott climbed out and went exploring. I watched the icons of their wands on my display, as they moved around, cautiously casting revealing spells. After a few minutes, my phone vibrated.

“Yo, Jamie.”

“Ryan, we haven't found a thing so far. Have the driver pop the trunk.”

That caused momentary confusion, until I learned that in Britain, a car's trunk is called the “boot.” In all fairness, that might, just conceivably, be logical somehow or other, but the reasoning escaped me then (and still does). However, we got it done, and the icons clustered around the back of the car as everybody got out their brooms. Hermione stayed to watch in front as the others flew slowly up and over the building.

“Nothing in the back except some trash cans,” Jamie reported in my ear. “Ron calls them 'bins.' We're going to have a close look at the roof area. Harry says I should go ahead and try the Navajo spell, and I'll do it up there.”

I knew what was coming, and watched a new icon appear on the Sniffer as Jamie got out a small brass brazier, fired up a lump of charcoal, and began the ritual. He had described it to us earlier, and it used some of the items he had bought in Diagon Alley. (“Always best to use local ingredients,” he had said when Harry complimented him on his foresight.) Blowing gently on the glowing coal to bring it up to temperature, he sprinkled bits of snowdrops, borage and moly, finally adding several dried yucca flowers he had brought with him from home. (Talk about foresight.) As the smoke curled upward, he took out his wand and spoke the Navajo incantation. I could see a faint lavender cloud on the display curling around the group...and then watched it form itself into a line, which snaked toward the front of the building and began to pool in one spot.

“Think we may have something here.” Jamie's voice was quietly excited, and the group's icons moved toward the pool of smoke. I heard a voice in the background say “ _ Lumos _ !” and then a new voice came on the phone.

“Ryan.”

“Harry.”

“Has anything changed on your Sniffer display?”

“No – there's no change in that funny orange line, or anywhere else in this area. But of course I can see you, your wands and brooms and what Jamie's been doing, perfectly well...and if you've found something, I bet I know where it is.”

“Right. Well, it's time for you to come on up and have a look at what we've got here. Watch your footsteps when you land, don't want to wake up the Muggles. Can you bring the Sniffer with you, or d'you want Jamie down there to take over?”

“No problem, it flies through the air with the greatest of ease. I'm on my way.”

I shut down the screen, shrunk the keyboard and put it in my pocket, and levitated the CPU unit, still running. Then I got out of the car, retrieved my broom from the trunk – I mean, boot – and Hermione was beside me, saying quietly, “Let me take the computer for you.”

“Thanks.” Mounting our brooms, we flew up to the top of the four-story structure. The tiny light from the end of Harry's wand was not far back, near a chimney with an ornate cap. As we approached, Elliott's wand lit up as well, and Jamie stepped silently out of the group and pointed his wand at us; our shoes transfigured into thick, soft, perfectly-fitting moccasins.

They were looking at a spot between the brick-faced building and the next one, which had a heavily carved stone front. A strange object, dark and rectangular, almost invisible except for the shadows it cast in the light of the wands, appeared to be floating in the air a few inches above the roof surface. I didn't look closely right then, but instead busied myself getting the computer set up; there was a convenient corner where two chimneys pretty much concealed a smaller-sized display screen. When it came up, the picture was different.

From this perspective, the orange line was wider – I zoomed in until it was almost six inches wide, and centered the display on a new feature on the line – a rectangular icon, orange, with one edge showing up indefinitely, fading off into grey blankness. The opposite edge of the rectangle showed red, bordered on three sides in black, and there was a sort of a black lump about halfway along. That looked weird, but when I turned and gave it the Muggle Standard eyeball scan, it looked even weirder.

It was a trap door, or rather the edge of a trap door, not quite closed, fading off into invisibility before it reached its hinges. It was held open, perhaps half an inch, by a hand....a blackened, desiccated, mummified hand, sticking out with its fingers curled in agony.

I sucked in a breath quickly, and let it out slowly. “So that's why the concealment spells didn't work completely.”

“Yes...that seems logical...” Hermione's voice sounded faint.

“Buck up,” said Ron, “whoever that is probably got what was coming to them.”

Harry looked at me. “Ryan, if and when we got in, I was minded to let you go first, but I'm afraid this changes things.”

“It sure does. What we have here – one way or another – looks like a crime scene to me. On your turf. What's your procedure for something like this?”

Harry held up a finger, and looked at Elliott. “Just give the team a yellow, would you?”

“Right you are.” Elliott held his wand aloft and shot out a stream of yellow sparks, and about 30 seconds later four more dark-robed broom riders were hovering just above the roof. They threw back their cowls, and it was three men and a woman.

“Don't land,” said Harry quietly. “Introductions later. Got a body here, don't know what else yet. Looks like a crime scene. Zelda, go get us a flying team from St. Mungo's, please.” The woman raised a finger in silent salute and shot off at high speed over the rooftops. “Orderic, we probably ought to have some more of your people, just in case. Are there any available?”

“Already on their way,” said a stocky Wizard with a full beard. “Flying squad's always on duty. I sent a Patronus when we saw your yellow.”

“Very good, thanks! You go ahead and dispose them as you think best, but I'd like one of your lot to be up here with us.”

“Right, that would be me.” Orderic Pease (as I learned when he was introduced later) took the others up about thirty feet and gave them quiet instructions; they left in different directions. Then he came down to our level and hovered above the building with the stone front.

I had an idea, and said, “Harry, if we've got a few minutes while they get set, I'd like to try something.”

“Think you can look inside with the Sniffer?” He was interested at once.

“Not with the Sniffer – I've been trying, but the crack's too narrow – but I can scan the area with EMCASS, the analysis program I whomped up.” I looked at Ron and Hermione. “The one I used on George's front window.”

“I thought they were the same thing,” Hermione said, surprised.

“No, although they are similar. The Sniffer was created by the Magical Research people, and it's tuned into Dark Magic. EMCASS – Magical Circuit Analyzer Spell – is a programmed spell I came up with, back in school, for, uhhh – just for fun. It shows some magical spells,  _ and _ electrical circuits, and fiber optic connections too. I've thought about trying to combine the two, actually, but haven't had a moment to do anything about that – ever since I visited the Research establishment and got the Sniffer, things have been happening pretty much all the time.” They all chuckled at my dry tone, and I minimized the Sniffer and brought up EMCASS. It located all the circuits in the flanking buildings immediately, and I was able to identify the lights, internet connections, two burglar alarm systems, some electric heaters, air conditioners, and small appliances. But the building we were interested in didn't show up at all....with one exception.

“Back of these buildings there's a power cable that doesn't seem to go anywhere, but it's live – in service, connected, I mean. It must be the drop for 96-B. Proof – if we needed it – that there's a concealed building here.”

“Will the building appear, like Number 12 Grimmauld Place does, when the trap door is opened? If so, we'd better be in the air when it happens.” Hermione had a very good point.

“I sort of expect it to,” said Harry, “and you're right about that. Let's not be in contact with anything.” Just then, Zelda came zooming back along the rooftops, with several other broom-mounted figures following her, dressed in lime-green robes. One of them was Dr. Conway once again. He'd brought two litters and two teams of orderlies; at Harry's direction they posted themselves in the air behind Orderic. As they did, two brief fountains of green sparks came up from the streets in front and in back, and Orderic nodded at Harry. We all mounted our brooms and took off. I levitated the keyboard, Hermione levitated the CPU unit, and the display screen and multipair connectors (dimmed way down) stayed with it.

Harry looked around at everyone, then pointed his wand at the trapdoor. “ _ Wingardium Leviosa _ !” he said. Nothing happened. “ _ Dissendium _ !” Still nothing. After a moment he asked Elliott, and then Hermione, to try opening the trap door with their wands. Aloud, Hermione tried “ _ Alohomora _ ,” and Elliott went around to the other side and used “ _ Carpe Retractum _ ” and “ _ Portus Aperio _ .” None of those, nor anything they might have tried non-verbally, produced any result. 

“Do you mind if I try?” asked Jamie. Harry was more than willing, and we watched as Jamie also failed to make anything happen with his wand. Then he shrugged, and reached into his robe. “Well, there's always the old stand-by,” he remarked, producing a miniature fishing rod, which he quickly turned into a full-sized one with a wave of his wand. Another couple of taps changed it into a heavy-duty rig, suitable for ocean fishing, and he enlarged the hook until it was the size of a small grapple. Ron and Harry gave each other one-sided grins, and everyone was intent as Jamie hooked the visible edge of the trap door, just beside that awful-looking hand, flew upwards and back, and began to pull. The line tightened, and then suddenly the trap door lid moved upwards with a loud sepulchral groan. As it reached the vertical, the groan increased exponentially and added some very low tones indeed. The concealed building shoved the others aside, and in a few seconds the trap door lid thumped down on an entirely different roof. It was a rather shabbier near-duplicate to the roof of the brick-faced building, and still, of course, invisible to Muggles. At least we hoped it was.

The hand didn't move.

“Wait a minute, Harry,” I said as he moved toward the opening, “I can see inside now. I think.” I brought both displays up side by side, but discovered only one could be live at a time. I made notes, and looked at the Sniffer. “It looks like protective magic is definitely in play here, there are apparently several spells. One's a caterwauling charm...I'll get to the others in a moment.” I switched over to EMCASS. “We've got live electrical circuits – there's an actual electronic burglar alarm! And a telephone line, with a working telephone. Two of them. That's interesting. There's a coaxial cable TV drop, apparently not connected to anything – could be an internet line also...”

“Can you see where the burglar alarm central unit is?” Orderic had flown closer and was looking at the display with great interest. “Odd that it didn't go off when the trap door opened.”

“I think it's a motion-sensor type,” I replied, studying the screen. “It's right about over there,” pointing to a spot on the roof with my wand, “and not very far down, I'd guess it was ceiling-mounted.”

“All the better,” Orderic said with satisfaction, and flew over to the indicated area to put down a freezing charm. When he came back I asked him if he could douse the power to the whole building.

“Don't need to dowse it, I know right where the mains come in.”

That stopped me cold for a moment. “Uhhh...douse, like you douse a fire with water?”

“Oh, douse! Shut it off! Ah, I thought you meant dowsing, with a wand – that's how we usually find things like that, without this picture gadget of yours.” He looked around. “Harry, any chance we might be able to get one of these?”

“Oh yes,” Harry smiled and nodded. “You're not the only one! But the one Ryan has here is an experimental model, so keep your dowsing skills up to snuff for now.”

Orderic went down and froze the current at the main breaker box ( _ maybe make that  _ fuse  _ box _ ! I thought; the building was  _ old _ ) and the EMCASS display showed it; everything went down except for a couple of battery backups, and the Invisibility Squad froze those with no trouble. So I brought the Sniffer on line and we tried to make sense of the magic on display. It looked like there were several protective spells still active, but the Sniffer didn't recognize all of them; it was obvious that its magical database was going to need serious infusions from the British. After a few minutes, we agreed on the best things to try, and gathered in a semi-circle, our wands out and ready. 

“ _ Finite Incantatem! _ ” Elliott cast the spell at Harry's nod. It had two effects. On the display, one layer of spell-patterned color faded out. And at the trap door, the hand moved. When the fingers stirred and raised upwards, it was horribly like the hand was reaching out. Thoughts of inferi ran through my mind. But then it pulled backwards and disappeared, with a horrid sliding and rattling and an impact that sounded like a cloth bag full of bones. 

Hermione shuddered.

We sat, listening, for perhaps a minute. The only sound was distant traffic, the wail of a siren far away, and a freshening breeze. There was no sound from the trap door. “It's all right, I think,” said Harry, and one by one, several people sent anti-jinxes and counter-curses down into the square of blackness as I watched the display. They had no effect that I could see.

“I think the other stuff is down inside,” I finally said. “The spells aren't having any effect from here, but with a direct line of sight...”

“Right, then.” Harry touched down on the roof and leaned his broom against the chimney. I followed immediately, and he turned to me. “Ryan, I think the same logic still applies here.”

“Not this time, Harry. The Sniffer's no good until I can get it in there. I've got to see for myself. Besides, those people in there...or what's left of them...are apparently Americans.”

He looked me straight in the eye for a moment, then nodded. I thought I saw a small smile as he turned to the trap door and said “ _ Lumos! _ ” The light from his wand showed a steep open stairway, almost a ladder, slanting down to a wooden floor. There was an untidy heap of clothing at the bottom. He started down, and I lit my wand as well. The stair-ladder didn't have many steps, but they sounded very rickety. I waited until Harry had stepped around the body onto the wooden floor, and started carefully down. 

It was an attic, dusty and mostly empty, except for some cardboard boxes stacked against the rear wall, under a small circular window. There was a door in the other wall, standing open, leading to a narrow, steep stairway. The body on the floor lay mostly on its face, and it was peculiar. The clothes were Muggle clothes – a grey business suit – with a white shirt and, coming out from underneath, a conservative-looking blue necktie. They looked relatively new. I say relatively, because the body inside looked like it had been dead for a long, long time.

Harry had walked over to the doorway. He turned around and said, “Ryan, could you bring the Sniffer down here? Best to have a look before we leap, I think.”

“Right you are. Shall I have the St. Mungo's people come and get....that?” I jerked my head toward the body.

“Definitely.”

Getting rid of “that” took a few minutes, but not very many. Dr. Conway supervised the litter team, and as I stood over the trap door waiting for them to lift it out, I heard Harry ask him to be very careful to preserve everything with the body for later examination. Once they had cleared the roof, one of the orderly wizards set off over the rooftops with the emaciated corpse, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed one of the Obliviator team join him as he went.

The Sniffer display now looked way different. Inside the building, we were also inside charms laid on the building's exterior boundaries (I think there were three of them) and they had blocked or distorted what we had been seeing. Now it was obvious that the place was honeycombed with spells, charms, and protective magic. I whistled softly.

“Harry, look at this.” He stood beside me before I finished the sentence. “This had to be some kind of serious headquarters. There are security spells and protective magic all over the place.”

“That's going to take a bit of doing.” He called softly up the trap door. “Elliott? Send Bill down, and back everyone off, will you?”

“Back off, did you say?” Elliott's head, facing down the trap door with his ponytail hanging down on one side, looked disembodied in the wandlight.

“We've found a lot of magic in this building we couldn't see before, and some of it could be rather nasty. If we set something off – well, let's be safe. Nobody right over this building, and people should spread out and look for some handy cover, I'd think. Except you, I'm afraid, as we'll need someone to...” His voice trailed off as I held up my cellphone, and he flashed a quick grin. “Right. Cellphones. So you can back off with the others, Elliott, and stay with Jamie.”

“Whoa! Hold on! I'm not getting any signal – the phone isn't working from in here.” I climbed back up the stairs and stuck my head and shoulders out of the trap door. “Yep. Works now.” I stepped back down to the attic floor.

“Maybe Bill can do something about that,” said Harry, “so for now we'll need you there, Elliott.”

“Right-o.” Elliott's head disappeared and almost immediately, Bill was coming down the rickety stairway. He looked at the display and turned to me, eyebrows lifted.

“That looks like a concentration of protective hexes and jinxes almost worthy of goblins. Any idea what they were protecting here?”

“Damfino,” I replied. “Should have been just some Departmental files and personal effects for three people. Except, of course, that all three of them were probably Death Eaters.”

“And it rather looks as if this was Voldemort's liaison office to your Department of Magic,” said Harry in a dry tone, “instead of the other way round.”

“Too true, Harry. Much too true for comfort. So Bill, where do we start?”

We started with a quick survey of the attic, the floors below, and the ground floor, first with the Sniffer and then with EMCASS. Bill's face got longer and grimmer as we went, and when I asked him about removing the outer concealment spells, so we could use the cellphone, he shook his head.

“Not a good idea, I think. This place is guarded like a fortress. It looks to me like they were most worried about an attack from outside, and if I'm right, then going after the outer protections is likely to give warning – set something off. It's a bit like when you broke into Gringott's, Harry.”

I don't think I've mentioned that, have I? Harry told me about it, in a very matter-of-fact way, that morning at his house; mixed in with all the other things it sort of faded into the background. Harry, Ron, and Hermione broke into Gringott's vaults, stole a valuable antique (which was one of Voldemort's horcruxes), freed a blind guard dragon, smashed their way out, and rode the dragon to freedom. A relatively minor incident. Nothing much, just the storyline for an Oscar-winning motion picture, the greatest heist caper ever filmed, that's all.

“I see what you mean,” Harry nodded. “We got through all the outer defenses before we were found out.”

“Exactly.” Bill turned to me. “Ryan, this house is old enough to have a cellar, and perhaps even levels below that. Never can tell, in London. What do you find below ground level?”

I looked at 10-foot slices below the ground floor, and sure enough. There were levels beneath, some of which looked entirely disconnected from each other, going down over 90 feet before we hit bedrock...apparently. What grabbed our attention, though, was an object on the cellar level, about nine feet below ground. It was about three feet on each side. The Sniffer showed it as black, with a red border, and showed other spells cast on the same level. EMCASS showed the object as a violent, strobing purple.

“That,” I said in a quiet conversational tone which sounded totally false to my ears, “is an object which is full of the worst kind of Dark Magic, and it also happens to be full of something which is highly explosive. It looks like there's a fair amount of it down there, too.”

“Watch it.” Bill's voice was flat. “That thing is connected – magically – to something. We don't know what – could be anything.”

“The thing is, my EMCASS program shows it blinking, strobing. See there? I've only seen that once before, when I looked at an explosion in ultra-slow-motion. A steady, solid purple means it's an explosive substance, but I think the strobing effect means it's explod _ing_.”

“Except that it's not. We've been looking at it quite a long time, as explosions go.” Harry's conversational tone seemed to have less of that brittle edge I heard in mine. “You know, that fellow who held the trap door open was obviously trying to get out. Perhaps that was because he knew that thing was going to go bang?”

“And maybe whatever stopped him may have stopped – frozen? – the explosion?”

“And if anything should disturb whatever _that_ is...” Bill spoke very softly.

“Right then, time to make a careful, quiet retreat.” Harry spoke equally softly. “Don't know if we can apparate from in here, but let's not try. No magic. Up and out and fly away. Bill, you first, and get Elliott and everybody back off and sheltered.” Bill climbed the rickety stairway quickly. I had started closing programs on my computer, but it took a minute or so to get it properly shut down. I was standing at the bottom of the stairway, with one my wand raised to shrink it down when Harry crowded up behind me and said,

“Ryan, go! I'll get it out – _wingardium leviosa_!”

The computer zoomed up and out the trap door. I scrambled up the steps, with Harry right behind me.

And that's when the bomb finished exploding.

*********************


	15. Visiting Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan wakes up in St. Mungo's -- and has an argument with Harry.

When I woke up, I was actually pretty comfortable for awhile. For however long it took me to start remembering things and begin to wonder where I was, anyway. My eyelids seemed to work, the light was bright enough but not painful, and after a bit I figured out that I was looking at a ceiling. There was a noise. I waited, and heard it again, a sort of rustling sound. I waited patiently, hoping to identify it if it happened again, and while waiting decided to try practicing with the eyelids again. I closed them and opened them.

“Ah. Are you back with us, then?”

More of my systems were coming back on line, and I decided I might be able to see the source of that question if I turned my head to the right. I tried it, and it worked. A little slowly, but it worked. I saw a bed a couple of feet away, and lying propped up in the bed, looking over at me, wearing striped pajamas and his round spectacles over a concerned look, with his hair sticking up in every direction, was Harry Potter.

“Whuh-ah...” my first attempt didn't go very well, so I swallowed – that was working, at any rate – and tried again. “Well said. Excellent question.” My voice sounded hoarse. I swallowed again, which felt reassuring. “I'll appoint a committee at once to look into it. Let you know what they find. I'll be interested too.” At that moment, a door opened and people started coming into the room. “You see? Here they come now. Quick service. But then, I am an undersecretary, you know.” I had the satisfaction of seeing the concerned expression on Harry's face dissolve into a grin, although it still looked strained.

Then Jamie and Dr. Conway were looking down at me, dressed in identical lime-green robes, both holding their wands. They asked me some silly questions – I knew perfectly well who I was – pointed their wands and muttered things that made the room darken and brighten again, and did some other things that made my legs and arms twitch. It was nice to know my arms and legs could twitch. Then Jamie gave me a glass of something that looked golden, with swirls of bright blue in it; it tasted – well, not bad, but not exactly good, either, kind of like lemon juice with a shot of rocket fuel. But it definitely helped.

Conway pointed his wand at the bed – it was an old-fashioned kind of bed, with an iron frame painted white – and the head end raised up with a groan, putting me in a sort of sitting-reclining position. My head was clearing fast, and I looked at both of them.

“So how am I? You'll have to submit your report in triplicate, and route an extra copy to the Head Auror over there in the next bed. How is he, for that matter?”

“Better than you,” said Jamie, “although you're going to be fine. Harry broke his left foot and his right hand is all. Except for the concussion, I mean. You, on the other hand had quite a list – you remember them all, Cracks?”

Dr. Conway looked thoughtful. “Let me see – skull fracture, broken neck, smashed nose, several cracked vertebrae, liver damage, gall bladder, impaled kidney...what else? Oh yes, compound fracture of the upper right leg, broken hip, and the kneecap reduced to splinters. And loss of blood, of course. Aside from various bruises and minor lacerations, I think that's about it. Nothing we couldn't handle, really, although it was a bit tedious checking everything. Still, all in a day's work.”

“The real question is,” Jamie asked, “how are  _ you _ feeling?”

“Like I've been dragged through a knothole and then stuffed back to the other side with a broom handle. Otherwise, fine.”

That got a suitable round of chuckles. They looked at each other and Conway nodded, grinning. “As you predicted, Doctor. Incorrigible sense of humor. Brilliant prognosis, if I may say so.”

“He can't help it.” Jamie nodded sideways at me. “But thank you, Doctor, and if I may say so, you did an equally brilliant job on the vertebrae and the kneecap.”

“Just routine, really,” Conway answered with a ham actor's modesty. “After all, he wasn't sprouting spines all over, and none of his appendages had been turned into vegetables. Still, it's very kind of you, Doctor.”

“Oh, not at all, Doctor. Any Doctor would have the highest respect for your skills as a Doctor, Doctor –”

I knew perfectly well what was going on, and truth to tell I was delighted to find that Jamie was getting along so well, so quickly, at St. Mungo's. But I'd only been awake for less than half an hour, and besides, as far as their gushing at each other was concerned, I was one of the sources of the Nile. I tugged on Jamie's robe. “I hate to interrupt, but I just had a thought.”

Jamie turned to me, looking concerned. “What's that?”

“If you fellows break your arms patting each other on the back, Harry told me about one of your patients here, a fellow named Lockhart, who knows just how to fix that.”

There was a loud laugh from Harry, who then had to tell them the story I'd heard at his house, about how he broke his arm playing Quidditch and Gilderoy Lockhart, who was then a Professor at Hogwarts, had attempted to fix it but instead had accidentally removed his arm bones entirely. Lockhart later accidentally removed his own memory, and was in long-term care on another floor. The two Healers laughed, then turned to me, shaking their heads.

“Not that I'm not grateful, you understand, for saving my life.” I was quite serious. “And Harry's. And I am glad to see you getting along.”

“Ryan, joking aside, having Jamie here is proving quite a wonderful experience. In a way – not that it was at all worth the cost! – but in a way, it was a very good thing that he was introduced to us in an emergency situation...in the sense that we all worked together before we were properly introduced. By the time we found out he was with your Department of Magic, he had already earned our complete and total professional respect.”

“And vice versa,” agreed Jamie. “I couldn't have asked for a better introduction, diplomatically speaking. More to the point, I've been learning a lot.”

“We have a great deal to learn from each other. That seems quite clear at this point! Jamie is doing a complete tour of the hospital, and may well be able to help us with some of our...difficult cases. And on top of all that, he likes a laugh as well as anyone.”

“Hey, I coulda told you  _ that _ !” I grinned. “That's great. Officially, I'm almost as pleased as I am personally, which is a saying a lot. After all, if I can attempt some of that understatement you Brits are so famous for, not being dead or crippled for life is one of the better things that's ever happened to me. But I do have one question...”

“Yes?” I had been looking at Dr. Conway, and now I made my face into a question mark.

“....Cracks?”

Conway grinned. “Oh, that – well, Caractacus is a fine old British name, but I'm happier to answer to Cracks – or Cracky – or Cracker – but not the past tense, please.”

“Unless you really mean it, of course,” added Jamie, and Cracks – as I'll start calling him now – gave him a pointed look.

“Could be worse,” I said brightly, “you could have been named after his brother.”

“Yes! Quite right, and I see you've read some British history.” Cracks looked impressed.

“Well, there was a character named Caractacus in a book I read as a kid – Caractacus Potts. I looked it up, eventually – the original Caractacus fought the Romans, way back when.”

Harry's curiosity got the better of him, and he spoke up. “What  _ was _ his brother's name?”

“Togodumnus,” admitted Cracks after a moment, and Harry snorted.

“Wow.” Jamie looked at Cracks and then at me. “I see what you mean.”

Cracks nodded. “With that name, I should never have got through the first year at Hogwarts alive, let alone medical school!”

The two Healers gave Harry a quick examination, pronouncing themselves satisfied, and said that he might be able to go home tomorrow, being careful not to actually promise, however. They told me I'd better plan on being here for a few more days, and laid three large slabs of chocolate on the bedside table, with instructions to eat it all before going to sleep tonight. Promising to look in again later, they left, and shortly thereafter a nurse brought in a pitcher of iced pumpkin juice, a pitcher of water, and two glasses. My body had relaxed and loosened up amazingly since drinking that potion, and I found it quite possible to move, although little stabbing pains here and there made me do it gingerly. We shared some of the chocolate and drank juice, while I started to think. After a little while I finally said,

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“I've got a million questions. About what happened after the lights went out, I mean.”

“No problem, fire away.”

“OK, but first – Harry, I've only known you, what – three days?”

“Six now, actually. A week, tomorrow.”

“Was I out that long? Jeez.” I took another drink of pumpkin juice while I tried to process that. “But what I mean is, you've been almost killed,  _ twice _ , in the first three days we've known each other. And this time, it was an  _ American _ bomb, planted by  _ Americans _ , that went off while you were trying to help  _ me _ . I owe you a major ap---”

“No. Please stop.” Harry spoke urgently, and looked very upset. “I'm the one who owes  _ you _ an apology, Ryan.  _ I _ set that explosion off myself, and  _ you _ then proceeded to save  _ my _ life.”

“What? How?”

“By being first in line when we went through the roof.”

“Oh.” I couldn't think of a thing to say. I couldn't even think of anything to  _ not _ say. After a moment, Harry continued, his voice bitter.

“ _Wingardium_ _Leviosa_. Swish, and flick, and boom! Amazingly stupid of me, wasn't it? We hadn't actually done any magic inside that house yet – we'd worked from outside, and your computer apparently didn't count as magic, or active magic at any rate, or something. The whole equilibrium of spells, whatever it was that had frozen events in that house, collapsed when I levitated your computer. It's fine, by the way – Hermione caught it in midair.”

“That's good. But Harry, look, you couldn't have known---”

“Rot. I did know. We all knew. Thanks to you, we had advance warning about the bomb, and a chance to get out safely. Ryan – if it hadn't been for your work with the computer, we might  _ all _ have been crowded into that attic when somebody cast a spell, and never have known what hit us. But I – I don't know, I just wasn't thinking, I suppose. We were on our way out, and – oh, what's the use? I'm just not  _ ready _ for this bloody job.”

“Now just a bloody minute!” The anger in my voice made him look up. “I don't know why you people think 'bloody' is such a bad word, but if you've got a worse one, I'll use that. Harry, I'm no more ready for the job I'm trying to do than you are – less, in fact, when you think about it. A lot less! You went up against Voldemort, and  _ beat _ him, but I never wanted to be a  _ diplomat _ – I've had no training at all for  _ this _ bloody job!”

“Yeah, well that just makes it worse, doesn't it? You've been doing right well so far – at least your Secretary of Magic seems to think so, Kingsley thinks so, and for what it's worth, so do I. You've made a lot of friends here very quickly, and perhaps you don't understand fully how...unusual that can be, over here. It's not been really the usual thing for me, at any rate.”

“Oh, hell, Harry, that's not skill, it's plain old dumb luck...and the fact that the people I've met have turned out to be  _ incredible _ people. Like  _ you _ . Deal with it. Hey, I had no plans at all when I got here, beyond going to Gringott's – I just  _ happened _ to be looking in the front window at Weasleys' Wheezes when George arrived to re-open the store. Of all the wizards and witches in this country, the first people I run into turn out to be him, and Arthur, and Ron and Hermione! Come on, can you think of anybody in this island it would have been more ideal for me to meet?” Harry cocked his head, acknowledging that he couldn't, and I continued, “Seriously! What are the odds? And I may not know much about diplomacy, but I've got a pretty good idea that it's not supposed to be part of a diplomat's job to get his new friends killed!”

“Which is  _ not _ what you did. Not at all!  _ I _ was the one who rushed in like a fool, ordering people around – ordering my  _ friends _ around – when I hadn't really got the slightest idea what I should be doing---”

“Horse maneuvers!” I always liked that joke, but it fell flat that time. “I  _ did _ have Auror training, and according to what they taught me, you handled things beautifully. You brought in all the best available people, got their advice, and made a good plan before going in. You took every precaution I could have thought of, and a few I didn't. Harry, aside from – from what's left of you and me, how many people were hurt when that place blew up?”

“Well...nobody, actually. That's one good thing.”

“It sure is. And why was that? Because  _ you _ ordered your friends to get back, and stay safe, and you did it in plenty of time.”

“Yeah, well, that's pretty much what Kingsley tried to tell me, when he came round yesterday – day before yesterday, actually. Said he'd be back, by the way, but haven't seen him yet.” Harry was calmer, but still looked very unhappy. “Still, Ryan – I'm – well, I'm not in school anymore, if you see what I mean. I'm in charge, and I'm responsible. And the whole thing did blow up in our faces, didn't it?”

“Yeah. Although – not exactly, if you want to be precise. At the time, we were actually facing the other way...” I had to chuckle, and Harry couldn't help but join in. We looked at each other, and the chuckles became full-blown laughter, which felt really good, even if I did have a few protests from certain parts of my torso. I felt tears in my eyes, and saw Harry lift up his glasses and wipe his with a corner of the bed sheet. Then a thought struck me.

“Merlin wept in a little blue bucket! I just realized – I wasn't thinking either, back there in that attic. I was about to shrink my computer down to pocket-size, and  _ that _ would have set the damn thing off, wouldn't it?”

Harry blinked a couple of times. “Yeah...I suppose...probably...not that we'll ever know.”

“Well, there you are. Even with the training course under my belt, I made that same damn mistake. We're a fine pair, we are. And I'm a fine diplomat! Laying here  _ arguing _ with you. Sorry about that, Harry.” 

“Thanks, Ryan. So am I.” He lifted his glass of juice, and we clinked glasses and drank together. After a few moments, I thought of something else, and shook my head.

“You know, I think I must be going native.”

“What do you mean?”

“I've just realized – we've been  _ arguing _ about who's going to  _ apologize _ ! How British can you get?”

Harry looked startled for a moment, and then we were both laughing again. After we settled down, I went back to munching chocolate, and Harry filled me in on what happened after the bomb went off. Apparently the security spells on the building had been strong enough, and had held long enough, to vent the explosion almost entirely upwards, so the surrounding buildings were not much damaged, and none of the Muggles in them were hurt. They were, however, abruptly woken up, and the fact that so many of the Ministry's Obliviators and Invisibility Task Force people were already on the scene turned out to be a really, really good thing. As well as the teams from St. Mungo's – Jamie and Cracks had caught Harry and me in mid-air, and we were on our way to the hospital literally before we came down. Bill and Elliott had managed to make almost all of the debris fall straight back down into the crater where Number 96-B had been. Ron had helped with that, and had the presence of mind to use a summoning charm on both our wands while they were still in the air – neither was damaged, and they were both in the drawer on the bedside table. Hermione had not only caught my computer and kept it safe, she'd had a brilliant inspiration and transfigured much of the gasses floating about into natural gas, giving the Muggle emergency first-responders (who began arriving very quickly) solid evidence to support a perfectly logical, if completely wrong, explanation for what had happened. This made the work of Orderic Pease and his people a lot easier, and everyone was back at the Ministry within an hour.

The Muggle news services had of course reported the disaster thoroughly, and had been speculating that an unexploded bomb left over from the war might have been set off by the blast, which was all to the good, as far as the Ministry was concerned. Muggle officials had evacuated the area, inspected everything, and by the time I woke up had already let people back in; the story in the Muggle media had died down and the headlines were back to the latest scandal about some politician's sexual peccadilloes.

Harry and I had had a stream of visitors – Kingsley, Ron, Hermione, Arthur, Molly, Bill, Elliott, Abner, Mrs. Murdle, and even Percy. Neville and several others had sent owls with get-well wishes and promises to visit. Most of St. Mungo's patients were in wards, but Harry's status – or maybe Kingsley's request – had gotten him into a private room, and I was levitated in to join him after the Healers had finished with me. This apparently had taken quite some time, and I had been kept under a sleeping charm for two days, until it was allowed to wear off. Then I had slept naturally for most of another day before coming to – in the late afternoon, as I found out.

Visiting hours were over at 6 p.m., Harry told me, and not long after that, an orderly Wizard brought in dinner – sorry, in Britain lunch is dinner and dinner is supper; at least breakfast is breakfast, and then there's “tea,” but let's not go into that right now – brought in supper for us. I was famished, and a little dismayed at being served a small portion of chicken and large helpings of soup and vegetables, while Harry got a beefsteak with all the trimmings. But our trays each also held a Chocolate Frog, and mine looked up and spoke in Jamie's voice, telling me that I had to be careful what I ate, while my liver and other internal organs got used to working properly again. After dinner I discovered I could stand up, learned I was wearing an extra pair of pajamas Molly Weasley had brought, and found that the private room had a private bathroom. I'm a shower-taker, but since there was only a rather large cast-iron bathtub with clawed feet, I had my first tub bath in years. I got back into bed feeling vastly better than I had when I woke up, and told Harry I felt ready for anything.

I was wrong, though. What I wasn't ready for happened about 9 p.m., when the door opened and we found out that the Minister of Magic had enough drag to ignore official Visiting Hours. I saw Harry's eyes light up as Kingsley came in, and I think mine did too, but then they bugged out of their sockets as I saw the man who was following him.

***********************


	16. After Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With two VIP visitors, hospital rules go by the board, and Ryan's mission gets a higher priority.

Admiral Alistair Blackstone, USN (Ret.), Interim Secretary of Magic of the United States, was dressed in civilian robes of midnight blue. He crossed to the foot of my bed, put his hands on his hips, and looked straight at me.

“Don't get up.” That made me grin. He grimaced and said ruefully, “Bob Hope used to get a laugh with that opening, every time he walked into a ward full of wounded sailors. How're you feelin', son?”

“Pretty good, Admiral, really. They do good work here.”

“Yes they do.”

“Everything seems to be working like it should, Sir, and I feel ready for – well, if not absolutely  _ anything _ \---” I glanced at Harry, and a corner of his mouth went up. “-- at least most things.” 

“That's fine. They tell me you're going to be here for a couple of days. Enjoy it. And you do exactly what they tell you, that's an order – because as soon as they turn you loose, you're going right back to work. Any questions?”

“Yes Sir, one question.” I took a deep breath. “What the hell are  _ you _ doing  _ here _ ? Sir?”

Now it was Blackstone who broke into a grin, and his face didn't crack or anything. He looked relieved. “Checking up on the fastest-moving Undersecretary in the history of the Department, that's what. Jamie Two Eagles wanted me to say you've been moving at breakneck speed, but there's no way I'm going to pull a joke  _ that _ bad.” 

“No Sir. Of course not, Sir.” Now I was grinning too. Kingsley chuckled, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Harry looking surprised.

“And look here, Ryan,” he began. When he used my given name, I was surprised. “We're in your hospital room, and you're already on a first-name basis with everyone here. I'm feeling a little left out, so let's toss the formal language overboard. Make it Alistair – OK?”

“OK...sure!” My astonishment must have been plain enough, because he chuckled, and so did Kingsley Shacklebolt.

“Alistair, it's time you met our Head Auror, Harry Potter. Harry, meet Alistair Blackstone, the United States Secretary of Magic.”

Blackstone walked over to Harry's bed and shook hands, looking him straight in the eye like he always does. “Damn, son, I'm  _ very _ glad to meet you.”

“Same here, Sir.”

“And the same thing goes. Here in private, I'd be honored if you'd call me Alistair.”

“Sure!” Harry glanced at me and gave a little laugh. “Thanks, Alistair.”

Kingsley produced two chairs with his wand, and they stayed for well over an hour, a time filled with fascinating talk and not a little laughter. Blackstone's sudden advent was quickly explained: after visiting Harry the first time, Kingsley (with his schedule already in tatters) grabbed one of the new TAPKeys and went to Washington. His appearance was unexpected, but his rank got him immediately escorted to Alistair's office; the Secretary thereupon promptly “deep-sixed”  _ his _ schedule (as he put it) and decided on a flying trip to the UK. “I made him stay over for 24 hours, though,” Alistair commented. “A Trans-Atlantic Portkey kinda takes it out of you, if you're not twenty years old, and full of piss and vinegar. And I got to show him around a bit,” he finished with a satisfied nod. They had arrived at the Ministry about the time I was waking up, and he was planning to go home tomorrow evening. 

“You might stay a little longer, Alistair. When I got back this afternoon, as you saw, I found that the Ministry had not dissolved into chaos in my absence after all. From what I saw of your organization, you probably don't have to worry about that either.”

“I'll take that under advisement, Kingsley. But I am glad you got a chance to look around over on our side.”

“Oh yes, absolutely. Especially that visit to your Research Establishment. That was quite amazing....and Harry, one of these days  soon , you're going to have to go there.” 

Harry looked at me, anticipation in his eyes. “Cool! I'd love to go there!” Then he looked back at Kingsley. “But after four days in here, I'm going to have some catching up to do back at the office.”

“Perhaps not as much as you think.” Kingsley had an odd expression on his face, amusement with a touch of concern. “I appointed a couple of new Aurors, Harry – only temporary, of course, entirely subject to your approval, after you get back to work. Sorry I didn't talk to you about it, but it came up just before I left for America. When I got back, I found they'd been making excellent progress, working under Elliott, who's doing very well himself.”

“Oh.” Harry was a bit taken aback by this, and I didn't blame him. I was facing the same challenge of building up a new department after I got back, but I'd been sent on a mission and knew I'd just have to start with whatever I found when I returned. Harry, on the other hand, was in the middle of the job, and I knew he was trying to get a real grip on it. But he just nodded, and said, “Well, that's good, things getting done. I'll talk to them first thing, then.”

“Yes, of course. They're expecting that. I made it clear that they'd have to step down if you didn't approve. Like you, they haven't had formal training yet, but they do have some experience.”

“I see. That's all right, then. Er...what are their names?”

“Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger.” I let out a whoop, and both Kingsley and Alistair broke out in broad grins. Harry's mouth fell open, and before he could speak, Kingsley added, “The whole thing was their idea, Harry. They waylaid me as I was just about to leave. Hermione can be an extremely persuasive young woman, when she puts her mind to it.”

“Yes...yes, she can indeed!” By this time, Harry was laughing and shaking his head back and forth. “Oh yes, I've had  _ years _ of that. Right then, I'll talk to them, and we'll sort it out.”

“I know you will. And if you do keep them on, you know in advance that I entirely approve.”

Alistair questioned Harry for a bit about his encounters with Voldemort...or Tom Riddle, I should say: Alistair said we should think of him by his regular name, partly because his self-appointed title was nonsense and had died with him, and partly because it would remind us that he was a human being, not some monster from another planet. The story of Riddle's Horcruxes had appalled Alistair, who turned out to be familiar with the Beadle The Bard stories and had been astonished to learn that the Deathly Hallows were real. Harry's Invisibility Cloak (which had been in Harry's robe and survived the explosion with no apparent damage at all) was in the bedside table drawer with our wands. When Harry handed it to him, Alistair somehow turned into a ten-year-old boy on Christmas morning, trying it on, then putting it on Kingsley and walking around him, looking hard for any imperfection.

Finally, he folded it with quick precision into military neatness, and handed it gently back to Harry. “Thank you, Harry. That's just about the most amazing damn thing I've ever seen in my whole life.” Then I had to explain why Harry and I burst out laughing.

I asked Alistair if I should report to him now, while I had the chance. He shook his head. “No, Ryan, not now; get it down in writing when you can. I've been getting a great deal of what you'll be reporting first-hand, now – certainly the most urgent matters, at least.”

“Actually, Ryan, Alistair and I have been discovering how useful and efficient it is to deal directly with each other,” Kingsley put in. He held up a hand. “Oh, that's no reflection on you, believe me! As he said, you've gotten more done, more quickly, than anyone had a right to expect.”

Alistair picked up the thread with a vigorous nod. “That's right. But when a report has to be written, sent, received, routed, read, and digested before I can frame a reply, or ask questions, it just takes longer. Kingsley and I have been able to make a lot of progress already, and will make more tomorrow, I'm sure. Our visit to the Research people really got things moving at flank speed – they're assembling a team of instructors, with equipment, to get some Wemail set up at the Ministry. They'll begin arriving day after tomorrow.”

“I'm beginning to wish I'd been in the Navy,” agreed Kingsley with a smile at Harry's and my looks. “I've never seen things in any organization move so quickly as they did when Alistair started making 'suggestions.' Harry, you're going to have a computer and Wemail as soon as I do, and two of the Research lads are going to bring another one, with the latest version of the Sniffer, in about a week. They'll stay on and work on development – and training – until we're fully up to speed.”

“A week? That's amazing! I thought it would take – well, a lot longer.”

“It probably would have, if it had to go through channels,” said Alistair. “But when two people with full authority can deal directly, it's amazing how short those channels can get. That said, though, make no mistake – Ryan, the fact that we've been able to deal so directly, and so substantively, from the moment we first met, is thanks largely to the groundwork you've done – and the really marvelous response you've gotten –  _ we've _ gotten – from the new team at the Ministry. That very much includes you, Harry.” He looked at Harry with frank admiration, an expression I'd never seen before and would bet very few people had. Harry started to look embarrassed, but that, of course, cut no ice with Admiral Blackstone, who turned to Kingsley and asked, “In fact, Kingsley, I've been wondering why this young man hasn't been knighted? Or made a Duke or something?” Harry looked seriously alarmed, and his face turned a fairly remarkable shade of deep pink. Alistair looked at him with what I'm sure he thought was a kindly expression, and said “Don't worry, son, I've learned in a long career that it is not really possible to die of terminal embarrassment.” 

I reflected (reading between the lines of some of the stories Harry had told me) that Harry had probably learned that lesson at Hogwarts. But I didn't say anything, and it was Kingsley who answered the question.

“He certainly deserves all of that.” Harry started to look really agitated, and Kingsley held up his hand. “But getting a Wizard, or a Witch, put on the Queen's Honors List is something of a problem, because the List is so carefully scrutinized and widely reported in the Muggle world. A major honor to anyone as young as you are, Harry, would be certain to attract attention, so you needn't worry too much. I hope to report to Her Majesty in due course, but it's not really all that easy for me to get a chance to talk with her – security is extremely tight at Windsor Castle; now that the crisis is past, I'm waiting until she goes up to Balmoral. Prince Albert had Ottaline Gambol put in a Wizard's Portal when the place was built – makes it all much easier.”

“Albert of Saxe-Coburg und Gotha,” mused Alistair. “He was a great friend to Wizards, wasn't he? Pity that he died so young.”

“Indeed,” said Kingsley, nodding. “Queen Victoria was very suspicious of us, so I've always heard. Would never agree to receive a Witch, only Wizards, and very infrequently. We were left in peace during her reign mainly because Albert had wanted it that way.”

Harry (to change the subject, I suspect) asked about life in the Navy, and this turned out to unlock a veritable treasure-house of stories from Alistair, who had served on all sorts of different ships. He told one about some American sailors putting one over on the Russian navy in the Mediterranean, by sending one of their Admirals a signal-flag message containing a remarkably obscene insult (in Russian), quickly followed by an abject apology for a signalman's error – and what looked exactly like the signalman in question being marched out on the deck, and ceremoniously hanged at the yardarm! The unfortunate hangee was really “Charley Noble,” a dummy used for man-overboard drills. No telling what the Russians thought of it all.

Alistair had unbent far, far beyond anything I had ever imagined he could or would do, and had a real talent for “yarning” as he called it. We were laughing pretty loudly when the door to the room opened and a Witch in nurse's robes came in. She was an older woman, with a blocky face, and her stern expression made me, at that moment, feel like folding up in hysterics. But everyone else suddenly quieted down, so I did too.

She cleared her throat loudly. “See here, Mister Minister, these patients need their rest. If you have  _ quite _ finished with your  _ official business _ ...” (She obviously figured she had walked in on a bunch of monkey business!) “...it is, after all, well past the regular Visiting Hours.” She folded her arms and glowered.

Thereupon Harry and I were treated to the sight of the two highest-ranking Wizards in our respective countries acting like schoolboys caught breaking the rules. They took their leave quickly; Admiral Blackstone (as he suddenly was again) promised to visit me again, if possible, before he returned to the US. The nurse pointedly held the door open for Kingsley, but then Blackstone made quite a fuss about “ladies first” and insisted on her preceding him. As he went out and shut the door, he stuck his head back in and gave us a big wink. If laughter really is the best medicine, we got regular doses every time we looked at each other for the next ten minutes.

****************


	17. Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Harry is discharged, a convalescent Ryan gets a visit from a worried Hermione, and a conspiracy is born.

The next morning, after another visit from Cracks and Jamie, Harry left for home, planning to go the Ministry in the afternoon. Not long after that, I was beginning to wonder if St. Mungo's had a library, or maybe a radio, when the door opened again and in came Hermione.

“Hello Ryan!” she said cheerfully.

“Hermione! Hello hello!” I made no effort to hide my delight at seeing her. Grabbing my wand, I pointed it at the straight-backed chair across the room. “ _ Accio chair! _ ” I guided it to a good spot between the beds. As she sat down, I raised the head of the bed some more. “Thanks for coming! It's really good to see you. I'm afraid Harry's not here – just been discharged, he's heading home, I think.”

“Yes, I know,” she replied, “I met him coming in, actually, and we're going to meet Ron for lunch. He looks all right, though, doesn't he? What I'd like to know is...how are  _ you _ doing?”

“Pretty well, I think – extremely well, really, considering....I am  _ very _ glad I'm not a Muggle, though.”

Hermione nodded, very seriously. “You'd have probably died. Harry says you're back on your feet now.”

“Yes I am! Still get a few little twinges if I move too fast, but they've given me a potion that's helping a lot. I got a little dizzy the first time I stood up, but that went away quick, and I guess it's not too surprising...”

“No, it isn't” she agreed, and added, “Considering.” She shuddered a little. “It was really, really frightening, Ryan. The explosion, I mean. It was huge.”

“Sorry I missed it. I like fireworks.” Hermione gave me a half-exasperated look. “And even sorrier that it didn't miss me. Thanks to Harry, though, all the people we needed were already on the spot. Cracks Conway, and Jamie, and the Obliviators, you and Ron – and hey, I just remembered, Kingsley said you talked him into appointing you both Aurors! Congratulations!”

She turned a light pink, and grinned. “Thanks. It was the only way, really. Kingsley had to do it, Harry would never have taken us on. Trust me, I know him too well. He's afraid it looks too much like favoritism, or nepotism, or something – especially since neither of us have had the proper training.”

“As if  _ he _ has! Talk about the thurible calling the cauldron black!”

“Well, yes.” She smiled fondly, with a sort of a wry twist to her lips, and then suddenly looked pensive, and (most unusually for Hermione, both in my limited experience and from everything I'd heard) uncertain. “But – well, actually, Ryan – there's something I'd like to find out – about Harry – and I don't know whether or not I should ask you.”

“Ask  _ me _ ? About Harry?”  _ Shes a girl _ , I told myself.  _ Don't make any assumptions about where this is going. _ “Well, I don't mind if you do, but I can see your dilemma. I've only known him for a week – well, four days; I was unconscious for three – and I'm not even British.”

“But that's just it. You  _ haven't _ known him long. You don't have – well, memories, and preconceptions and things. You have a fresh viewpoint. But you  _ have _ had a chance to talk with him, and work with him, and...”

“I guess you could say I went out with him once.” I didn't think that joke was really such a much, but it caught Hermione right on the funny bone or something, because she burst into laughter. She had so much fun laughing that I had to laugh myself.

“Oh – oh – now I'll have to explain,” she gurgled, “so I might as well just go ahead and ask.”

“Okay.” I was still chuckling too. “Ask anything, it's all right.”

“Ryan, do you have a girl? Somebody? Back home in the States, of course I mean.” I shouldn't have been surprised when she veered off on a completely different tack.

“Ahh – no. Not now. I did have a girlfriend for a couple of years, when I was in school, but in our seventh year she....decided she liked the captain of the Quadpot team better. Big, handsome blond know-it-all, a real asshole. Pardon my French.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. It kind of put me in a tailspin, at the time, but I came out of it. I eventually realized he was such a jerk – had an ego the size of Wyoming, always talking about how famous he was going to be – that if she liked  _ that _ , she wasn't – I mean, I was – was...”

“Well out of it?”

“Nicely phrased.”

“I expect you're quite right.” She nodded sympathetically, but very definitely.

“Anyway, right after that I started Auror training, and that was  _ hard _ . And right after  _ that _ , I got tapped for the F.B.A. – the Federal Bureau of Aurors – and had to move to Washington, and when I got there things were...um, not what I'd expected, what with Slimy Parboil and Nosey Seward and all that. I was trying to keep my head down and figure out what was going on, and living in a strange city...well, I didn't have much of a social life. And then it was May second, and all unbeknownst to me, you people were fighting the Battle of Hogwarts, and Tom Riddle finally bought the farm, and everything changed. Since then, I've been running at top speed, until I got this nice little mini-vacation at St. Mungo's.”

“Yes, I see. And of course, that's just what I wanted to ask you. It's about Ginny.”

“I thought you said it was about Harry.”

“Yes, exactly – well, I guess I'm not being clear, really.” I was so obviously restraining myself from agreeing with her that she shook her head and smiled, a little sadly. “Ryan, this is really private, just between us, is that all right?” I felt my brow furrow, nodded, and she continued, “Have you noticed Harry being...a little odd? Difficult? Under a strain, as it were?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. All thought of jokes and banter was gone. “Yes, I have, sometimes. He's not sleeping as much as he needs, we all saw that, and...he's not sleeping well, I think. He woke me up a couple of times last night, turning over and...muttering things I didn't catch.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Hermione, this has to be really private from my angle, too, okay?”

“Of course, Ryan.”

“When I finally woke up – yesterday afternoon – we had a visit from Jamie and Cracks Conway. That went all right, but after they left, Harry and I...well, we had an argument.” She looked horrified, and I said hastily, “Oh, don't worry! It wasn't anything big, and we patched things up completely. It didn't affect our relationship...our friendship.”

“You're sure?”

“Oh yes. If anything, it – it helped. We laughed a lot after that, too. But in the light of what you've just said....well, anyway, what we argued about was...oh, it sounds silly, but it wasn't...I tried to apologize to Harry because it was an American bomb that blew us up, and he got angry – because he was feeling guilty. He thinks he accidentally set off the explosion...or released it...anyway, he thought it was his fault.”

“But that's – how could it be his fault?” She was completely mystified, until I explained about Harry's use of  _ Wingardium Leviosa _ . “I see. Well, yes, it – it might have been. Probably was, I expect. Oh!” Her eyes flew wide. “I almost forgot! The main reason I came was to bring you your computer!” She reached into her bag and brought out my computer, shrunk to traveling size, and put it on the bedside table. “I'm sorry, but your keyboard was smashed up pretty thoroughly. Even  _ Reparo _ didn't work.”

“Fan- _ tastic _ ! Thank you. Not just for bringing it – with absolutely perfect timing, by the way – but for saving it. Hermione, has anybody ever told you that you're wonderful?”

She blushed a little and said, “Oh, it was just – we were all watching the hatchway, and the computer came sailing up and out, levitating it was easy. I knew it was important, and I'd seen you shrink it often enough, that was no problem. But the keyboard – don't you need that?”

“That doesn't even begin to be a problem. I can always set up a virtual keyboard just like I do with the display, and type away. I usually don't, because a physical keyboard is actually easier to type on. And when I get a chance, there must be hundreds of places in London where I can pick up a new keyboard, any kind will do, once I get through with it.”

“Good, that's all right then.” She looked at her wristwatch. “Oh, dear, I mustn't stay too long. Let's get back to Harry – you said he was feeling guilty. About the explosion.”

“Yeah. He was beating himself up pretty good about it. Tried to make out that he'd screwed everything up, and he actually said at one point that he didn't think he was right for the Head Auror job.”

“What nonsense!”

“Of course! And I got mad and told him so, in my blunt, thumb-fingered American way. It was all just verbal, but I gave him a pretty good dose of what-for.”

“Good for you.” She was in no doubt. “Somebody needed to tell him.”

“Well, you know, I'm thinking that the fact that he would say things like that to me – an American? Who he's only just met? – probably says something pretty good about his level of trust, where I'm concerned.”

“Yes, I should think it does.”

“And I should think you've probably found out that it's quite possible to argue with Harry, and not lose his friendship.”

“Yes.” She blushed and grinned at the same time. “Yes, I have, it's true.”

“So I'm not worried about that argument. But Hermione, if Harry finds out I talked to anyone about this, it might...erode that trust. I mean, we've still only known each other a week – four days!”

“Oh...yes...yes, you're right. It's not something we should risk.”

“Check. But listen, I've answered your question. Now let me ask one. You – and Ginny – are really worried about Harry, aren't you?”

“Yes. Quite worried. Especially Ginny, as you might expect. She's the one came to me. She's been hoping he'd – rebound...brighten up...or something like that, now that Voldemort's finally gone for good. And at first, he seemed to be. Doing that, I mean. Oh, of course he was exhausted after the battle – when he finally got to bed he slept for almost twenty hours straight. Some of the DA set up a guard post in the Gryffindor Common Room, to keep people from trying to see him until he woke up. We all understood about that! And there was a lot of...things to do...afterward. Funerals, and...”

“Fred.”

“Oh yes. And Remus and Tonks, and...Colin...” She started to cry, and stopped herself. “No, wait, I'll be all right. I'm sorry.” I produced a clean handkerchief with my wand – a little trick I'd learned, one of the few good takeaways from my time with Diane. “Sorry,” she repeated as she dabbed at her eyes, “thanks. Anyway, Harry went back to the Burrow, and Ginny says he was kind of – well, aimless for awhile. Reaction, she thought.”

“Perfectly understandable.”

“Of course. He was just kind of – I don't know, in limbo or something. There were lots of people – not just reporters, lots of ordinary people – who wanted to see him and talk with him and thank him and ask him for things – he just couldn't deal with that, and Arthur and Molly got some people to help and they kept everyone away. Then when Kingsley asked him to help put things to rights in the Auror section, and he finally agreed, he seemed to – straighten up, sort of, and be interested in things again. Ginny was happy about it, because then he had something to do, if you see what I mean.”

“Sure. When I was down in the dumps, keeping busy wasn't easy, but I didn't have a lot of choice, and it turned out to be the best thing for me, looking back.”

“I'm sure it was. And we thought the same about Harry, but...”

Her voice trailed off, and after a bit I prompted her. “But what?”

She took a deep breath, and let it out again. “Oh, Ryan, he's not himself. Not really. Even Ron has noticed. He's...well, he changes. Sometimes he seems all right, but other times he's – distant. Withdrawn. He snaps at people, and then has to apologize. Mrs. Murdle told me he had Jenny nearly in tears one morning, over some stupid little thing, but then he was extremely nice about it later. Must have been terribly awkward for Harry, he  _ hates _ that sort of thing. I didn't suppose it's anything anyone who didn't really know him would see, but you seem to have noticed something, at any rate.”

“Well, yes...some...but after all that's happened, I didn't think it's that big a deal.”

“Ryan, if you ever tell anyone I told you this, I promise I will hex you into a hairy blob of disgusting green jelly...(I nodded quickly, held my hand up, and then drew an 'X' over my heart with my index finger.)...but I think Harry's been fighting with – with Ginny.”

“With  _ Ginny _ ?” I didn't see that coming at all. “But I've seen them together. I've never seen two people more perfect for each other. And they know it! It's so obvious – even to me, even the first day I met them both. She's Harry's focus – his refuge, his strength...just like he's hers....are you sure about this?”

“Pretty sure. Partly because Ginny hasn't actually said anything about it, and that's just not like her, you see, because we've become such good friends, we tell each other  _ everything _ . And I'm quite sure she's  _ terribly _ worried.”

“Okay.” It was my turn to take a great big breath, and let it out slowly. “Hermione, for what it's worth, you've got my 'fresh viewpoint' and my vast experience and great wisdom, such as it is and what there is of it. I'll just sort of lay out what I think, and you tell me if I'm going off the beam. Okay?” She nodded. “For starters, it strikes me that you and I – and Harry – share an experience Wizard kids don't have.”

“Growing up in the Muggle world.”

“Well, yes – but I was thinking of having your world turned upside down and inside out when you turn eleven, and discover that magic is real and  _ you _ can do it!”

“Oh – yes, of course. That  _ was _ a huge surprise, wasn't it? It took my parents some time to accept it – they're scientifically trained, after all. But once I got over the shock, I thought it was incredibly exciting.”

“It was pretty scary for me, once the implications sunk in. I had to leave home and go to boarding school – most American kids don't, you know. Not at that age, anyway! And I had to pretty much give up all my childhood friends, all the kids I knew at school in town.”

“Yes, that was sad. I had friends...I've just drifted away from them. My life is so different now. But you do know, don't you, that it wasn't like that for Harry? For him, it was like being set free.”

“Yeah, he grew up with relatives who didn't like him very much, didn't he?”

“That...is an understatement worthy of an Englishman!” She told me more about the Dursleys (Harry's Muggle relatives) than Harry or anybody else had, up to that point – just to mention one thing alone, for most of his childhood, they had made him live in a closet under the stairs! I spent several minutes just being appalled, all the more so when I remembered my Mom and Dad, birthday parties, family trips...I was a lucky kid. So was Hermione.

“Harry's even more amazing than I thought. To come out of that – and be such a decent person...a really good guy...wow.” We looked at each other, in perfect agreement. “He told me, last night, that he doesn't usually make friends very quickly. Was he always like that?”

“In some ways, I suppose. At first – in our first year at Hogwarts, he made some friends right away. Ron, and Neville, and – well, the thing was, of course, he was already famous. 'The Boy Who Lived,' the boy with the scar, the one who had done in Voldemort, and all that.”

“Right. So some kids challenged him, and some tried to suck up to him, and it must have been kind of hard to find friends who just wanted to be friends, if you see what I mean.”

“Yes, that's it exactly.”

“So he had that, and adjusting to the whole Wizard thing, plus school – and on top of everything, Tom Riddle wasn't dead after all. Harry spent the last six years fighting the worst Black Wizard in – living memory, at least – I mean, not that you and Ron didn't fight him, too. And lots of others. From my 'fresh viewpoint' you're  _ all _ pretty damned amazing! But Harry – Harry was the guy sitting on the bull's-eye. There was that prophecy. He was Riddle's  _ target _ – his opposite, his num...nim...what's the word I want?”  
“Nemesis. Yes. He was.”

“How incredibly  _ unfair _ . People ought to have a chance to grow up before they have to be somebody's nemesis. That's a stupid thing to say, I guess.”

“It's not stupid. It's true. I think I see your point – Harry's life has been – unique.”

“Yes, unique – and  _ very _ stressful. Almost all the time.”

“Mmmmm....yes. He could  _ never _ forget about Voldemort. Oh, we all had our own stressful experiences, right enough, growing up and going to school, but Harry always had more of it. A lot more. Still, he did have good experiences, sometimes. Quidditch, and flying...Hogwarts itself was like a real home to him, he's said so...and he loved being able to visit at the Weasleys'.”

“Yeah, I totally get  _ that _ . The Burrow is such a cool place – mainly because it's full of Weasleys! But Harry didn't get to stay there very often – when school let out, he had to go back to the Dursleys', didn't he?”

“Yes, he did.”

“What fun.” I shook my head with distaste. “By comparison...well, there is no comparison. I was a lucky kid, Hermione. If I'd had to deal with...even what I know about what Harry had to deal with...I'd be so far round the bend I couldn't look back and see it with a telescope!” She gave a little snort of laughter. “What it comes down to seems pretty obvious to me – unless there's something else really important going on I don't know about, I suppose.” I made it a question, and Hermione thought a moment.

“I don't think so. Oh, there's lots of things you can't know about – details, really – but I think you've at least heard about all the main points, broadly speaking,” she said slowly.

“Okay, then. Harry's life – his stress – got more and more intense, until everything blew up in the Battle of Hogwarts. That was horrible – unbelievable! The price was  _ terrible _ . His 'real home,' as you said, wrecked, and  _ so _ many people killed. Good people. People he loved.”

“Yes.” Her lip was trembling, and I hurried on with my thought.

“But you  _ won _ .  _ He _ won. And everything changed. All the stuff that's been stressing Harry out has gone,  _ poof! _ No more Voldemort, no more school, no more Dursleys, no more trying to figure out life as a teenager – no more dating, even! Dating is fun, but it's a lot of time and trouble, too, and a lot of angst and risk, you know, and now – Harry's got Ginny, he doesn't have to deal with that. What he needs now is a chance to get his head straightened around and get used to the fact that his life is, all of a sudden, a lot different.”

“But he's not got that chance. And he isn't going to, it seems to me. He's taken on a whole new load of responsibilities, and he can't just walk away from them.”

“True. Maybe, by this time, he's not really happy unless he has responsibilities.”

Hermione's eye's got wider. “To give – well, structure? Direction? I hadn't thought of that.” She blinked a couple of times. “You may well be right. In fact, I rather think you are. But in a sense, that's just more of the same, isn't it? How can he get the chance to – get used to this different sort of life?”

“The only thing I can think of is also pretty obvious. He needs to take some time off. Take a vacation. Travel – get away. There's nothing like being in a distant place to give you a better perspective on things back home, I've been finding that out. I'd say he needs to get out of Britain – at any rate, go somewhere where nothing is going to remind him of all the stuff he's had to go through. Take some time to – take a fresh look at life, and at himself.”

“Yes, I see what you mean. And I think that's probably a very good idea...but I don't see how he would ever agree to do it.”

“Well, if he had some responsibility, some good reason, that would take him away...”

Hermione looked up suddenly. “Maybe Kingsley could give him an assignment or something, a trip to America on Ministry business!”

“Actually, I think he's going to do just that, at some point. But that's not what I'm talking about. Harry'd still be doing his job, still be dealing with the same things. And I don't think he'd really be very happy about being away from Ginny, would he?”

“No. That  _ would _ be stressful. And he'd just keep on thinking about – things back home. You're right.” She furrowed her brow and gnawed her lip. “Oh, Ryan, I just don't know.”

“Maybe I do.”

“What?”

“Give him the inescapable, natural, perfectly accepted  _ responsibility _ of doing what he'd really  _ like _ to do...” The idea had come to me, and I looked Hermione in the eyes. “Take his wife on their honeymoon.”

Hermione's mouth dropped open, and her eyes flew wide. “Of course! Yes. That would...”

“For – I don't know, a month. Or more. Someplace far away, and different, and fun, and safe...he and Ginny  _ are _ going to get married, aren't they?”

“Yes, of course they are.” She suddenly giggled. “You Americans are so direct! Remember when you first met Harry? The first thing you said to him was 'when's the wedding!' I almost died on the spot...and Ginny and I laughed ourselves to tears over it, later on.” Then she looked serious. “But do you remember his answer? He said they 'hadn't set the date yet.'”

“Yeah, that's right. And they still haven't?”

“No.”

“Is that because he's putting his Ministry responsibilities first?”

“Exactly. Ginny says he told her that they'll get married after he's got the Auror department...'knocked into some sort of reasonable shape,' I think is how she said he put it.”

“Uh-huh. Well, from that fresh, direct, American viewpoint you asked for, he's got it exactly backwards. Trying to put the Auror department together is keeping him from putting himself together. And if he put himself together first, he'd do a hell of a lot better job at the Ministry...wouldn't he?”

“Of course he would. It  _ is _ obvious, isn't it, when you put it that way. But that leaves us right back where we started, doesn't it?”

“No, not really. We've identified what needs to happen, and figured out the only thing that can make it happen – a wedding. Now, the question is how to make  _ that _ happen. But I kind of think there's probably only one person who can accomplish that.”

“Ginny.”

“Ginny.”

Hermione suddenly shook herself, looked at her watch, and exclaimed “Oh! Look at the time! I've got to go, or they'll be wondering what I've been doing. Oh, Ryan...”

She surprised me again, by standing up, leaning over, and kissing me. “Has anyone ever told you that  _ you're _ absolutely wonderful?” Then she was running out of the room, waving goodbye over her shoulder.

_ Brilliant _ young woman.

*****************


	18. Demotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conspiracy is interrupted when Blackstone gets Ryan out of St. Mungo's and gives him a new job, and they prepare for a journey up North.

I spent the rest of the morning on the computer, catching up on my notes and reports. About noon, Jamie dropped in and gave me the once-over. I told him the potion had helped immensely (true) and that I was feeling perfectly fine now (not quite true, but he wasn't fooled). Then I swore him to secrecy and told him there was a conspiracy afoot.

“Why am I not surprised? Who are you Whacking now?”

“Nothing like that. Honest! It's about Harry. He's going to be getting married one of these days here, and it's a question of where he and Ginny are going to go for their honeymoon.”

“Isn't that up to them?”

“Well, here's the thing. Harry needs a real break, after everything that's happened. A change, a rest.”

“You're right about that.” Jamie's tone was suddenly very serious, and I looked at him sharply. “Ryan, this is confidential, all right? I'm not Harry's principal Healer, Cracks is, so I shouldn't be talking out of turn. But since you bring it up, I'm a little worried about Harry.”

“Reaction? After all the stress?”

“Yes. You've noticed it too, eh? There's something I heard about in school, something Muggle doctors are dealing with, that can affect anybody, Wizard or Muggle, and neither they nor we have a specific treatment for it. It's called PTSD, stands for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The symptoms can vary tremendously, but it's always something that happens when somebody's been under stress for awhile, especially after the stress is removed. Depression, personality changes, difficulty sleeping or coping with things...the Muggles have been finding it in their combat soldiers, after they come home. But it's something that can happen to anyone.”

“And you're seeing this in Harry?”

“I'm not sure. It doesn't happen to everyone, and sometimes it's, well, a mild case, and people get over it. Or, sometimes, seem to get over it and have it come back, weeks, months, or even years later. Other times it keeps getting worse, and can get so severe that a person just snaps and goes on some kind of a rampage. I don't think Harry's going to do anything like that! Not at all. But getting blown through a roof is pretty damn stressful, and the more I learn about what's been happening over here, the more I realize how tough it's all been on Harry.”

“It sure has, maybe more than you think. For a long time. Since he was one year old.” I filled Jamie in on Harry's childhood, and sketched out what had been happening between Harry and Tom Riddle over the last – what, six years? It would have taken a couple of days, at least, to explain everything I had learned. Instead, I just hit the high spots, more or less listing things, and compressed it down into a few minutes. I finished with, “He's really an amazingly strong person.”

“Oh yeah, he is that. You're right, I didn't realize how high the stress-level must have been – and Harry's childhood just horrifies me, I'm sorry, but there's no other word. The lecture I heard at Muva – well, actually it was at  _ U _ -V-A, at the Muggle school of medicine – included some evidence that people with, um, difficulties in childhood were more susceptible to PTSD later on in life. But the guy also talked about people who were “resilient,” is the word he used, and thank all the heavens that Harry found the Weasley family.”

“Amen to that! And not just because of Ginny, either.”

“No, that's right. They're a huge – what did he call it? – a huge support network. And of course, finding out you're a Wizard is tremendously empowering; and Harry has totally learned that he isn't helpless in dealing with life, he can fight, and let's not forget, he won. He's a warrior – a  _ great _ warrior. But human beings do have their limits, even if they're Warrior Wizards.”

“You said '...especially after the stress is removed,' and that's where Harry is now, isn't he?”

“Yeah...” Jamie bit his lip and frowned. “Yes, very much so, and very suddenly too. I don't know how  _ I _ would process something like that...not quickly, that's for sure...and I think Harry may be carrying a lot of guilt around with him. Still, as you say, he's a very, very strong person.”

“So what do you think – professionally speaking – of a change of scene?”

“I'm all for it – professionally  _ and _ personally. I'd prescribe a pretty fair length of time, and a place that's inherently safe and low-stress.”

“And regular doses of Ginny Weasley...”

“Would be better than any potion I could whomp up. I see what you mean about a honeymoon. Any idea when this is going to happen?”

“Nope. But, uh, a little bird told me it might be sooner, rather than later.”

“That would be good.”

“And if you think about where – I don't know as Harry and Ginny would be likely to go anywhere outside of these islands, and I'm thinking that might not do it. I mean, it really needs to be somewhere in the Wizarding world, or at least somewhere where they don't have to worry much about dodging Muggles. They need to just be themselves for awhile.”

“Sure. Isn't that what a honeymoon is all about?”

“And the only all-wizarding village in Britain is Hogsmeade, just outside of Hogwarts.”

“Not a good choice.”

“So can you think of someplace back home in the States that would be a better one?”

“Hmmmm....interesting question....there's---”

I never got to hear his thoughts, because the door opened and in came Admiral Blackstone, holding his wand out, levitating a large flat box. He marched up to the bed, looked at me, then looked at Jamie.

“Well? What's the word?”

“Admiral, I'd  _ like _ to keep him here another day. He shouldn't use the floo network for another couple of days, try to Apparate for another week, or travel by portkey for at least two weeks – and in any case, I'd really like to see him again before he does  _ that _ . But if he's not going to be playing Quidditch...and gets a decent night's sleep tonight...I'll sign him out.”

“Good!” He let the box down on the bed and opened it up. It proved to be a set of Wizard's robes in a rich, soft, deep green fabric, and he looked at me. “Here you go, son. You know what? Diagon Alley looks almost exactly the same as it did the first time I went there, on my middie cruise, back in '57. And Madam Malkin's is still there! Your other robe was beyond help, but there was enough left for her to get the measurements. Underwear, socks, and shoes from your room at Claridge's. Get yourself together, we've got places to go and people to see.”

“Yes sir!” I got out of bed, firmly ignoring a few tiny protests from here and there, and started dressing. “I'm really glad you were able to stay longer, sir.”

“So am I. Kingsley Shacklebolt is a very smart guy, and he was right, of course. Captain Mahan has things under control at home. I'm still going to have to go back before too long, but being able to make decisions on the spot is helping them – and us – so much that I'm trying to do as much as I can first.”

Ten minutes later, we were in the back seat of a Ministry car, slipping through nonexistent holes in the London traffic. In my robes, I had stashed my computer, and a flask brim-full of that gold and blue potion which helped so much. “At least this city seems to be laid out in a reasonably practical way for cars,” observed Blackstone. “Washington's pretty, but with all those damn circles and one-way streets, no matter where you're going, you can't  _ get _ there from wherever you start!”

That got me chuckling, and I said, “Yes sir, it's true. I mostly get around by ducking into the Metro and Apparating from station to station.”  
“Sensible. Oh – while I think of it, here's your cellphone. I found the same model at Harrod's this morning. If you get a chance, you ought to see the place; they've got everything. Your old phone was trashed, but the SIM card survived, so you're back in business.”

“Great!”

“And here's a new keyboard, too.”

Even shrunk down to traveling size, I could see it was a good one. “Excellent!” I thanked him, and he turned toward me, circled us both with his wand, and spoke softly.

“Ryan, over the last couple of days I've been learning just how well you've established yourself – and your country, when you get right down to it – with the people over here.” He raised his hand. “Wait till I finish. It's a good deal better than I thought it was – I was welcomed with open arms, and Kingsley and I started getting along like a house afire the minute we met. I honestly can't see how anyone else could have made so much good solid progress so quickly. I know damn well I couldn't have. Some of it was luck, and timing, and the fact that you're...of an age with Harry and his friends, but you clearly have a genuine knack for this kind of work.”

“Oh,  _ crap _ .” I closed my eyes. Visions of a long diplomatic career, full of nuances and paperwork, swam depressingly before me. I opened them. “Sir.” He frowned. “Alistair.”

“Better. I do understand that you didn't exactly sign on for this job. You want to be an Auror, I know. Well, there's an old Navy saying – if you can't take a joke, you shouldn't have joined.” I did my best to chuckle, and he smiled and cocked his head. “Still, you and Jamie hadn't really had a chance to get going on the organizational jobs I sent you over here to do when you both landed in the hospital...in different postures, of course. And now that I'm here, I've realized that neither one of you is the ideal choice for that kind of work. One of the nice things about being in charge is that when you goof, you don't have to ask anybody's permission to start fixing it.”

I was somehow apprehensive and relieved at the same time, a strange feeling.

“We'll be sending over some people to establish the new London office, and Jamie is now relieved of that responsibility; I told him before he went to check on you. He's going to spend all his time with the medical community.”

“That makes perfect sense to me, Alistair.”

“Of course it does. But keeping you on as Undersecretary does not, I'm afraid. The UK was our biggest and most urgent foreign problem, but now that you've got that in hand, a whole crop of others have sprouted. Canada and Mexico are still mad about what Slimy's Ambassadors were up to, for starters, and Columbia, Nicaragua, Paraguay – hell, there's Myanmar, and Kazakhstan, and...well, Riddle and Parboil left more messes, and bigger ones, than I realized. And you're not the one to deal with those, your value is right here.” My relief had almost entirely submerged my apprehension, although not quite completely, as I waited for him to continue. “I'm relieving you – with heartfelt thanks, in your permanent file – of your appointment as Undersecretary for Foreign Wizarding Relations as of tomorrow, when Tameichi O'Hara takes your place. He's been our man in the Muggle State Department for years, and somehow managed to keep the rot at a distance when Parboil took over. He's not here, and won't be coming – I've told him to start putting out all the other fires, and leave the UK to you.”

“So...my new position will be....”

“As of tomorrow, you are Permanent Special Liaison Officer to the United Kingdom for Magical Law Enforcement Cooperation. After what happened with Tom Riddle, we're going to have more than one line of communication here, so you will continue to report directly to me, and to the FBA as needed. Ryan...” He looked at me seriously, and raised his eyebrows. “Are you all right with this?”

I grinned back. “More than all right, Alistair. I feel a lot better about this. I can do it.” I looked him straight in the eye. “I won't let you down.”

“I know you won't.”

I was still trying to figure out if that was a compliment or a warning, as the car pulled up in a parking spot that hadn't been there a moment earlier. I hadn't used the street entrance to the Ministry before; it was a phone booth in an alley, painted red for some reason. Outside of old movies, I'd never personally seen a phone with a dial, instead of push buttons. Blackstone dialed some numbers and said “Blackstone and Jenkins to see the Minister,” into the handset. The coin return disgorged a couple of golden badges; mine read  _ Ryan Jenkins, U.S. Undersecretary For Foreign Wizarding Relations, Diplomatic Mission _ . 

This time, the guard at the gate jumped up and escorted us personally to the lift, without checking our wands. Upstairs, Esmerelda also stood up, returned our greetings with a smile, and opened the door to Kingsley's office for us.

“Hello, Alistair! Ryan – it's good to see you up and around.” Kingsley shook our hands warmly and looked at me appraisingly. “Doing all right?”

“Yes, I am – really. Thanks! Jamie says St. Mungo's is an amazing place, and I can sure back him up on that.”

We settled ourselves in armchairs around the coffee-table (which actually held a coffee pot with cups and fixings) in a corner of the office. Arthur Weasley was there already, and was disappointed to hear that I wasn't supposed to use the floo network yet; he had met Alistair yesterday, and had wanted to invite him and me out to the Burrow tonight for supper.

“I am sorry to miss out on that, Arthur – I hear your wife is a marvelous cook,” said Alistair sincerely. “But it wouldn't have worked out anyway – maybe next time I come through here?”

“I shall hold you to it,” smiled Arthur. “Molly will be very disappointed if you don't!”

“I wouldn't want to risk that. I heard how she scuppered that LeStrange woman!”

Arthur grinned at this, but not with humor. “Yes she did, didn't she? But you know, I've only just got here myself, and I'm wondering if the fact that it 'wouldn't have worked out' has something to do with the reason for this meeting?”

“Indeed it does,” said Kingsley with an answering smile, reaching for one of the coffee cups and waving an invitation for us to do the same. We all fixed ourselves coffee, which wasn't bad at all. After the Minister and the Secretary had served themselves, Arthur and I got into a moment of “after-you-Alphonse” competitive politeness, which ended when first Alistair and then Kingsley started laughing. Settled back in our chairs again, Kingsley continued, “As I was about to say, Alistair and Ryan are catching a train this evening.”

“Good! You got the tickets, then!” Alistair was very pleased, and I felt a sudden spike of excitement.

“Well, it's all arranged, yes, but you don't actually need tickets for the Hogwarts Express. You are expected. Tonight's run leaves at ten p.m. sharp, which will put you in Hogsmeade about seven tomorrow morning – they reduce speed a bit on night runs. So you should get to Hogwarts itself just about in time for breakfast.”

“Perfect.” Alistair nodded. “I'd love to do the trip sometime in the day and see the sights, but this couldn't be better, Kingsley, thank you.” I had a big smile on my face and made a “yes!” gesture with a fist, and he turned to me and winked. “And don't worry, we'll sleep on the train. It'll be just what the doctor ordered. I very much wanted to see Hogwarts myself, and it turns out you and Kingsley have already talked about you going up.”

“The Express is running every few days now,” Kingsley put in, “taking up people and supplies and materials for all the repairs. There's a mixed load of things – lumber and stone, mostly – going up tonight, and it was no trouble to add a sleeping-carriage for you.”

“Well, I'm looking forward to it,” Alistair replied with a relish that matched my own. “Haven't traveled by train in years! What's the situation up there now?”

“Minerva McGonagall is Headmistress, the Board confirmed her last week. I sent her an owl telling her to expect you, and I'm sure that will be all right,” said Kingsley, “but I haven't been in close touch with the school, I'm afraid, since she was here on...what was it, the seventh? Arthur, I asked you to come because you're more up-to-date than I. You mentioned having an owl from Minerva the other day?”  
“So I had. She sent it to Molly actually, so it's home at the Burrow – but as I recall, she said things have been going rather well, a bit faster than she had expected. Still, there's quite a lot to do, and what with all the curse damage, and dark magic to be rooted out, much of the work is going to have to be reconstruction, rather than simple repairs. In the residence areas, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff were pretty much undamaged, but Ravenclaw needed some work – she mentioned the windows in the tower, and the common room – and Slytherin was apparently damaged pretty badly.”

“Did she say if she thought the school would be ready for the fall term?” Kingsley asked.

“She did say that she still hoped so, as we all agreed when she was here to confer, but she still wasn't definite about it. I gathered that they haven't yet begun clearing up the classrooms – at any rate, she mentioned the possibility of doubling up some classes, or shifting the schedule to make better use of available space. But they are getting along, at any rate – the kitchens survived, as you know, the Great Hall is at least weatherproof again, and three of the bathrooms are all right.”

“There's more work being done on Hogwarts this summer than there has been at any time in – centuries, perhaps in the last thousand years,” observed Kingsley, with a shake of his head.

Blackstone whistled. “It must be a huge job. I'm wondering if there's any way we can help?”

“That will be mostly up to Minerva, Alistair. She, and the other surviving teachers, have been given responsibility for returning the school to...a state where it can function effectively. And safely. No one's proposing any major changes, which would have to be considered by the Board.”

“Returning to to its former glory, in every respect, will probably take quite some time,” added Arthur, “but there have already been some thoughts about improvements, here and there.”

“When my folks moved to Indiana,” I spoke up, and they all looked at me, “my Dad bought an old house and remodeled it. It ended up taking a lot longer than he thought it would originally. It wasn't just that he didn't have magic to help. He kept running into unexpected situations, like 'well, before we can do that, we have to do this, this, and this,' if you see what I mean. And what was worse, where his budget was concerned, were thoughts of 'well, as long as we're doing this, we might as well go ahead and do that' or 'since we have to do such-and-such anyway, this is the perfect opportunity to...' Anyway, it was a lot bigger job than he thought, and that place was only about a hundred years old. To us Americans, a thousand years sounds like forever!”

Blackstone nodded vigorously and they all chuckled; Kingsley looked at me. “I suppose some of that will be inevitable. But there is a strong feeling in many people – including myself – that Hogwarts be restored to what it has always been. Modern improvements will encounter considerable resistance, and fundamental changes are, I think, out of the question.”

Alistair cocked his head. “After a thousand years of not being broken, I wouldn't advise fixing it! At any rate, I'm glad to get the chance to see it all, and I'm going to have to leave for home right after that – I'll just come back to London to get a TAPKey and make sure everything's shipshape. Tell you what, Arthur,” he said, draining his coffee cup and reaching for the pot, “if we can't get out to your place this evening, why don't you get Molly in here, and we'll all have dinner at Claridge's? On the Department, of course.”

“Oh no, Alistair, that's an excellent idea, but this is a charge on the Ministry. You are our guests, and---”

“Come on, Kingsley, I'm leaving, and this is my chance to---”

“Hey, wait a minute!” Everyone turned to me with gratifying looks of surprise. “You guys have to settle these high-level international diplomatic disputes, but if you don't mind, I'd like to go down and poke my nose into Harry's office while you do it.”

“Certainly!” said Kingsley with a smile, and Blackstone grinned and made a shooing gesture with his free hand. I got up, bowed to them all, and headed for the door with what I hoped was an appearance of complete freedom of movement – but when I found myself alone in the lift, took a hefty swig from the potion flask.

Down in the Auror's offices, Mrs. Murdle, Jenny, and Abner Proudfoot jumped up and greeted me warmly, and the fuss brought the others from Harry's office. Hermione ran forward with her arms outstretched, and then stopped. “It's OK,” I said, “I won't break.” She gave me a big hug, and there was a lot of grinning and handshaking for a minute or two. Then I gave them all my biggest smile and threw my hands wide.

“Congratulate me, everybody – I've been demoted!”

****************


	19. Locomotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan and the Admiral take the Hogwarts Express, and arrive in time to meet the staff at breakfast.

Sleeping on a train is  _ wonderful _ . I think I could sleep on a train anytime, even if I wasn't dog-tired and full of delicious food and drink. But in this case, that's what I was, because the afternoon flew by in conferences, which were so interesting and productive that I didn't realize until later how much the effort was taking out of me. 

Harry, Ron, Hermione and Elliott were working hard on a new plan for the entire Auror department, and I got drawn in. But first, they had a surprise for me – an office right there in the Ministry, between the Aurors' door and the entrance to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It was empty, and it wasn't all that big, but it was plenty big enough for me. Best of all, the door already had the U.S. Department of Magic seal on it, above the legend

**RYAN JENKINS**

**UNITED STATES LIAISON OFFICER**

**FOR MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT**

The eagle winked at me, and I formally accepted the space with the immortal words, “Well I'll be a monkey's uncle.” Kingsley and Alistair had arranged it, and the Britishers were almost as pleased as I was. Furnishing it would be my first job when I got back to London from Hogwarts.

They already knew the Secretary and I were going, and our trip was the main topic at first. I asked if they'd heard Professor McGonagall had been confirmed as Headmistress.

“Oh yes, we had. You'll like her,” said Hermione, “she's an Animagus, you know.”

“She is?” I was more surprised than maybe I should have been. “What's her animal form?”

“A cat, with markings around its eyes just like her glasses.” Hermione said.

“Animagi are very rare – in America, they have to have a state permit.”

“Same here,” Ron put in, “they have to register with the Ministry. D'ja ever meet one?”

“Yeah, there was a girl in my class at school, Brittany Bulgebotham, who was an Animagus,” the memory made me snort, “and it was a real problem.”

“How so?” asked Ron.

“Well, she was pretty – long, honey-colored hair – but  _ boy _ , was she  dumb ! A real air-head. And every time she got frustrated or upset, she turned into an Afghan Hound.”

“In  _ class _ ?”

“Sometimes several times a day. And the worst part is, Afghan Hounds  _ howl _ .” 

“Oh, dear!” Hermione was trying not to giggle, and failing. Ron was laughing outright, and Harry had a wry smile as he cleaned his glasses. They were all glad about the trip, and wanted a full report when I got back, but without a word being spoken on the subject, it was clear that they were happy to be busy at the Ministry. I got the impression that Harry, especially, really didn't want to see Hogwarts right now (at least, not until it stopped looking like a battlefield and started looking like a school again) and the others were being supportive. I was asked to give their best greetings to so many people that I resolved to give them to anyone I met there, because I wasn't sure I could remember all the names.

Then we spent a good long time talking about the Auror department, and Harry was very interested in the training I had, and what I knew about American practices and organization. Elliott and Abner had been through British Auror training, and the similarities – and differences – that came out in discussion turned out to be fascinating. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were a constant surprise: they had no formal training, but they did have a huge store of practical experience in their minds and memories. They kept asking questions us “trained Aurors” hadn't thought of, and making suggestions that weren't in the training manuals; it was the most sustained and successful example of “thinking outside the box” I'd ever encountered. We were so into it that we never noticed the time until suddenly the Minister and the Secretary arrived at the door of Harry's office.

The Admiral had met everyone over the last two days, and after a quick trip out in the hall to inspect my new office, he and Kingsley joined the discussion for over an hour. Blackstone's ability to extract and summarize the salient points at issue, formulate decision points, and rank things in clear, common-sense priorities, simply amazed me, and, I think, deeply impressed everyone else as well. He, in turn, was delighted by the freewheeling approach we were taking, as was Kingsley Shacklebolt.

We finally left, and Alistair and I were driven back to Claridge's Wizarding, he to pack and check out, and me to put enough clothes and such in my backpack to last out the visit. When we sat down for Alistair's unofficially official Farewell Dinner, there were nine of us. Ron, Hermione, and Harry came along with Kingsley, and Ginny Weasley arrived with Arthur and Molly. Once again, the private dining room was exactly the right size for our group, and the food was, if possible, even better than before. After dinner, the young foursome took their leave, and Kingsley, Arthur, and Molly came along to the station to see us off.

King's Cross railroad station was not very far, and the Ministry car got us there at 9:45. I had been wondering how they would hide a whole train, and that turned out to be no problem – they hid an entire platform! Wizards and witches simply walk straight through a brick column between platforms 9 and 10, and emerge on Platform 9-3/4 – where the sight that met our eyes caused Blackstone's face, and mine, to light up with delight. It was a steam engine! A great big red and black locomotive, slowly huffing and hissing in clouds of steam, hitched to a tender, four boxcars, a flat car piled with chained-down lumber, and two passenger cars (called “carriages” over there; they seem reluctant to give up the memory of horses).

The Conductor (“Driver”) greeted us with a broad smile, and apologized for the absence of the 'tea-cart' on this run, saying there would be refreshments in the first car, and beds in the last one. We said our good-byes; Kingsley and Alistair shared a handshake, and then Molly surprised me (at least) by giving us each a big hug.

As we clambered aboard and walked down the aisle, which was on one side of the car instead of down the middle, Alistair said, “This is marvelous. You're too young to have made a long trip by train. It's a damn shame the way we've let our railroads go to hell. I haven't slept in a Pullman berth since Arleigh Burke was CNO. You'll find it's a bit cramped, but I think you'll – well, I'll be dipped in lukewarm gook.”

That last expression was his reaction to opening the door to the last car, where we found two huge four-poster beds, complete with velvet canopies, sitting on a luxurious carpet along with armchairs, chests of drawers, and even a tall wardrobe. Beyond them, a door stood partly open, revealing what looked like a complete bathroom. What looked very much like gas-lamps lit the place brightly, although I was sure the flames were magical fire; I don't think gas burns with a pale purple flame which casts a warm white light.

As we set down our bags and backpack, we saw the Weasleys and the Minister through the windows, and waved – just as the train started with a jerk. I almost lost my balance, and it was only Alistair's quick hand on my shoulder that saved me. We waved as the train began to move, and they waved back as we slid out of the station. The Admiral produced a bottle of brandy from somewhere, found snifters in the forward car, and we sat in the armchairs and had a night-cap as the train rumbled through London. As we got outside the city, the lights beyond the windows got fewer and farther between, and I took a big swallow of potion, and was glad to tumble into bed.

Maybe it's the motion, or the sound, or the rhythm of the whole thing, I don't know, but sleeping on a train  _ is _ wonderful. I think I conked out in the air, several inches before I hit the sheets. When I woke up, there was light coming through the windows, and the train was, I thought, running more slowly. I stretched, and nothing hurt, which was also wonderful. 

“Rise and shine, son!” Alistair Blackstone was sitting in his undershirt, holding a steaming mug which had to be coffee. “Conductor says we're about twenty minutes out.” I scrambled into the bathroom, and when I came out he handed me a mug. The coffee was good, but very strong, and I used some sugar from a silver bowl on top of the dresser. We both dressed in our best Wizard's robes, he in midnight blue and me in the deep green outfit, which I was beginning to think (as I looked into the ornate floor-length mirror) looked pretty classy; it was something subtle about the cut.

The train pulled into the station, and we got off on the side the buildings were on, but there wasn't anybody in sight. After a moment, Blackstone headed toward the engine, and at a nod from him I headed toward the rear and crossed the tracks to see if there was anyone over there, but as I rounded the corner I ran smack into something very large and hairy. The first thing I thought of was a moose, but I didn't know if there were mooses in England, and anyway they don't have buttons. I looked up – and up – and finally, in the middle of a thicket of dark hair and beard, saw a broad, smiling face. Having been forewarned, though, I grinned.

“Sorry about that!  _ You _ have absolutely  _ got _ to be Professor Hagrid.”

“'at's right, so I am.” His voice was deep and his accent thick, but his answering grin was cheerful. He stuck out a hand the size of a ham. “An' you mus' be Ryan! Pleased ter meet yeh!” We shook, and my arm disappeared almost up to the elbow. “Are yeh alone then?”

“No, Admiral Blackstone went up toward the engine.” We crossed over and I called to Blackstone, who came back to us, tilting his head far back as I introduced them.

“Admiral, this is Professor Rubeus Hagrid of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Professor, Admiral Alistair Blackstone, United States Secretary of Magic.”

“Delighted to meet you, Professor.”

“A great honor, sir, an' no mistake.” They shook hands, or rather hand-and-forearm. “But if yeh don' mind, me friends jes' call me Hagrid, an' after what 'ermione said in 'er letter, I'd be proud if yeh'd do the same, both of yeh, bein' friends o' my friends an' all.” Of course we agreed, and he led us back around to the other side of the train. I hadn't seen what was there yet (it's almost as difficult to see around Hagrid as it is to see through him) and it was a sight to take your breath away.

A lake stretched away before us, the still water looking black in the morning light, mist rising from the surface. On the far shore there was a range of mountains, and high on top of the closest one stood a castle. A real, honest-to-goodness castle. Maybe you've seen pictures, but no picture, not even a Wizarding picture, can ever be quite as magnificent as the real thing. Even “magnificent” seems like too weak a word. Towers and turrets, walls and battlements (a word I learned that morning when Blackstone used it) gleamed in the morning light; tall windows sparkled and glinted; they seemed somehow warm and inviting. My mind was grappling with the idea that it had stood there for a  _ thousand years _ , and I couldn't think of a thing to say. I don't know how long it was before I remembered to close my mouth. 

“My God. It's magnificent.” The tone was softly reverent, and I looked to my right and saw Alistair's eyes shining with admiration. Beyond him, Hagrid's face glowed with pleasure.

“Aye, that it is. That it is, sir.”

“Even with all the damage. It's amazing.” Now that Blackstone had called my attention to it, I started to notice breaks in the lines, missing sections of roofs, windows unglazed or blown into odd shapes...and when I considered what it must have taken to do that to a building made of thick stone, something cold fell into the pit of my stomach.

Hagrid turned his head toward us and nodded. “Sorry I wasn't on the platform to meet yeh. I was down checkin' the boats when th' train come along. Di'n't know as yeh might want ter go across by water, bein' an Admiral and all.” He gestured off to the right. “I kin hitch up a carriage if yeh'd rather.” There was a dock on the lake shore, and a stack of smallish boats, built (almost as if carved by a master carpenter) in curving lines; one of them sat in the water. Over to the right stood a horse-drawn carriage, but I saw no horses – although the hitching poles were sticking straight out.

“ _ Thestrals _ , by heaven!” Alistair pointed, but I didn't see a thing. When I repeated the word as a question, he looked at me and smiled. “I keep forgetting how young you are. Thestrals are winged creatures, something like horses, very gentle, but the only people who can see them are people who have seen someone die.” He turned to Hagrid. “A boat, please, by all means.”

“Right, then, foller me, gennlemen.” When we got down to the dock, Hagrid stood aside to let us board, but Blackstone shook his head, smiling.

“No, after you, Hagrid. Old Navy custom – in our Navy  _ and _ yours – senior officers are last in, first out.”

Hagrid looked surprised, grinned, and nodded. “Aye aye, sorr!” He stepped aboard and seated himself in the bow. I followed, and then the Admiral, who sat in the stern seat. The boat did not sink any lower under our combined weight. Hagrid pulled out the longest wand I'd ever seen and tapped the rope at the bow, which untied itself and fell in the boat. Then he glanced sharply at Blackstone and tapped the rope again; it wrapped itself into a tight flat coil, stowing itself neatly under the seat, and I heard the Admiral chuckle.

“Ship-shape and Bristol fashion. Very good!” As we began to move smoothly out on the water, Hagrid explained that the “first-years” (new students) always used the boats when they arrived to begin their schooling, and graduating students leaving Hogwarts for the last time used them as well. The rest used the carriages. We glided across the water toward an ivy-covered cliff face, and bent forward at Hagrid's behest to duck under the vines into a tunnel. It was dark, and took a little time to get through, but then it opened out into a cave, lit by torches, and we climbed out onto a shelving beach of pebbles. Hagrid led the way up through a passageway and out into the morning light, where the castle stood before us, looking gigantic. The great doorway stood wide open, and its edges looked a little ragged here and there. We crossed a lawn onto broad stone steps, and as we reached the top, four figures in robes stepped forward into the sunlight.

“Headmistress,” said Hagrid formally, “Pleased t' introduce Admiral Alistair Blackstone, United States Secretary of Magic, and Ryan Jenkins, United States Undersecretary fer Foreign Wizarding Relations. Gentlemen, this 'ere's Professor Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts.”

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said the tall Witch, extending her hand. She wore deep red robes, and had black hair streaked with grey, and square dark-framed glasses. Her angular face had severe lines, but glowed with pleasure.

Blackstone shook her hand warmly. “Thank you, Professor. We are truly delighted to be here. Ah – you couldn't have known, Hagrid, since it was only just decided – takes effect at noon today – but young Ryan here has now been permanently assigned to the United Kingdom, as Liaison Officer for Magical Law Enforcement.”

“So we'll be seeing you more often then,” said McGonagall with a smile as we shook hands, and I smiled back and said happily, “Yes, ma'am!” She then introduced the others, who were the Heads of Houses. Pomona Sprout, Head of Hufflepuff, was a chunky, muscular-looking Witch with grey hair, brown robes, a raggedy hat, and a bustling, happy manner. Filius Flitwick, Head of Ravenclaw, was a tiny blue-robed Wizard, no more than about three feet tall, with brown hair parted in the middle, a mustache, and metal-rimmed glasses; his voice was a cheerful squeak. Horace Slughorn, Head of Slytherin, was older, bald, and not very tall either, but very well-dressed in purple robes that had an antique look to them. He was elaborately courteous, almost effusive. Professor McGonagall explained that she herself had been Head of Gryffindor, but now that she was Headmistress, Hagrid was going to handle those duties until there was a decision on a new appointment.

The Headmistress then led us across the flagstone floor to a doorway (also without doors, also scarred) on the right, which led into the Great Hall. About three paces in, the Secretary and I stopped dead in our tracks – a reaction that was probably anticipated by our hosts, as they all stopped right with us – and gaped.

It was a huge room, still quite magnificent (there's that word again) even though it had been, as Professor McGonagall put it, “rather badly knocked about” during the battle. “Huge” is another adjective that's true but inadequate: it's an awesomely big space, like Grand Central Station in New York City if you've ever been there, only even higher and bigger and a  _ lot _ older. Great tall windows let in the light, but most of them weren't there anymore. The two that were still intact had beautiful carved stone frames for each pane. Professor Flitwick explained that he had put a repelling charm in the others which kept out the rain. 

“And the ceiling too, of course,” he said in his ultra-tenor voice. When I looked up I saw that a big chunk of it was missing, but it confused me for a minute, because the part that was left looked, on the inside, exactly like the sky outside.

Like the walls, the floor was gouged and scored, but it was clean; there was no debris anywhere. What there was were four very long polished wooden tables, running almost the length of the hall, with benches on either side. A fifth table ran across the room at the other end of a wide aisle down the middle, and it (and the table farthest on the left, nearest to another doorless doorway) were set with golden plates and silver...or rather, golden-ware. As we walked down the aisle, Professor McGonagall said conversationally, “We are so very glad you are here, Mr. Secretary – and you, Mr. Jenkins,” nodding pleasantly to me, “and you could not have arrived at a more perfect moment. Everyone will be coming to breakfast shortly. I do hope you had a pleasant journey?”

“Yes indeed we did, Professor, thank you,” replied Blackstone. “The arrangements could not have been better, and it was extraordinarily restful.” They chatted as we walked along, and people were coming into the hall now, all Witches and Wizards I was sure, but some dressed in robes and quite a few dressed in various rough-looking working clothes. We took our places at the head table, with McGonagall in the center, Blackstone on her left and me on her right. The table was only about half full, and at the long table, no more than two-thirds of the places were occupied when everybody finally arrived. There were pots of tea and coffee on the table, and we all helped ourselves (Blackstone insisting on filling McGonagall's cup for her) as people filed in. Then the Headmistress stood up and tapped her spoon on her cup; the conversation died away and faces turned toward us.

“Before we have our breakfast, I should like to introduce two very distinguished, and very welcome, visitors to Hogwarts, who have just arrived this morning, all the way from the United States of America. On my right is the new United States Permanent Liaison Officer to the United Kingdom for Magical Law Enforcement, who has been working closely with our new Head Auror, Harry Potter – Mr. Ryan Jenkins.”

There was considerable applause, and I stood up, bowed and smiled; I wasn't entirely sure whether the applause was more for me or for Harry, but I didn't mind either way. Then I sat down, the Headmistress turned to the other side and spoke again.

“And on my left, I am deeply honored to introduce the United States Secretary of Magic, who is also a retired officer in the United States Navy, and who has been working closely with Minister Shacklebolt – Admiral Alistair Blackstone.”

This time the applause was louder and more prolonged, and, I think, even more sincerely appreciative. Blackstone stood, smiled and bowed deeply, and then turned toward McGonagall.

“Thank you very much, Headmistress McGonagall. We are very glad indeed to be here this morning, and I would like to assure you – and everyone here...” He looked around and down the length of the long table. “...that I am  _ not _ going to make a speech.” This got a solid round of chuckles throughout the hall. “But I do want to tell you all that Mr. Jenkins and I are not here to gawk, we're here to  _ learn _ . Most particularly, we're here to learn what we can do to  _ help _ .” That stopped him with a solid round of applause, and he waited until it died down. “In that respect, I guess this is as good a time as any to announce that the United States Department of Magic has made an initial donation of one hundred thousand galleons to the Hogwarts Rebuilding Fund.”

This time, the applause was laced with cheers, and much louder, because everyone was standing up.

*****************


	20. Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After breakfast, the Americans are given a remarkable tour of the Wizarding school by Headmistress McGonagall, and ideas for educational cooperation fire their imagination.

When we all sat down, food appeared on our plates and on platters nearly covering the table. Bacon and eggs – the eggs done five different ways – a leaning tower of flapjacks, with mounds of butter and pitchers of syrup, mountains of toast and other baked things that looked like biscuits and muffins, sausages, oatmeal, ham, pumpkin juice, those strange salty little fish they call “kippers” (not really my idea of seafood, but surprisingly good with eggs), beefsteaks, milk, orange juice...and more. It was fabulous, and reminded me of the buffets on a cruise ship (I had gone to the Caribbean with my parents when I was nine) – except it was better. And like the dining room back at school, things didn't even start cooling off until you put them on your plate.

Headmistress McGonagall spent most of the time talking with Secretary Blackstone, which was appropriate, and welcome, because Professor Sprout on my other side more than made up for it. She had loads of questions about people (I passed on those best greetings, and added some from Neville Longbottom, albeit without his permission, but to her particular delight), the Ministry (I enthused about what I'd seen), and especially about America. I tried to condense what had happened to us as a result of Tom Riddle's evil influence, but I found myself talking so much it was interfering with eating, so I started asking Professor Sprout about the Hogwarts staff. That worked great, because once she got going I just kept nodding and shoveled it in.

The other staff I met at breakfast were Rolanda Hooch, who taught flying and Quidditch, Septima Vector, the Arithmancy Professor, and Aurora Sinistra, the school's Astronomer. Everyone there had fought in the Battle of Hogwarts. I already knew that Hagrid taught Care of Magical Creatures, and had heard of Professor Binns, the Magical History Professor. Binns never came to breakfast, of course, because he was a ghost; during the battle he had fought, along with the other castle ghosts, as effectively as a ghost could fight (which wasn't all that much, I gathered, aside from the effect on morale, but was greatly appreciated anyway) and then had spent his time taking notes.

As I already knew, Hogwarts needed a new teacher of Defense Against The Dark Arts, and I learned they needed someone for Muggle Studies, as Professor Burbage (clearly very well thought-of, from the way everyone spoke of her) had been murdered by Riddle. Now that Professor McGonagall had become Headmistress, the school would probably hire a new person to teach Transfiguration, although McGonagall was planning to continue for another year, at least, until the right person was found. They also had no one lined up to teach Alchemy or Magical Theory, or Ghoul Studies (although that was, I heard, probably going to be dropped, at least for awhile) and there was talk about a complete review of the curriculum, although nothing concrete had been done about that so far.

After breakfast, the Headmistress and Professor Hooch took us on what Blackstone called “the ten-dollar tour” of the castle. The damage we saw was huge, but the school was so enormous that most of the building and grounds had survived pretty well. Still, there was massive damage to parts of the structure, far beyond what any simple “Reparo” could handle. The great main staircase had big chunks blown out of it, roped off with magical cords that glowed bright yellow and started flashing if you got close to them. Thirty-six stairways (out of a hundred forty-two, if I remember right!) were either broken, or blocked, or too dangerous to use for some reason, and seventeen others were marked with floating signs that said  _ Proceed At Your Own Risk _ , citing various reasons including curses and jinxes, missing sections, and uncontrolled movements. Statues, suits of armor, desks, and fixtures had been pretty badly chewed up in the fighting, and many tapestries and paintings (Hogwarts' walls are hung with hundreds of them) had been damaged or even destroyed. 

It quickly became obvious that we needed guides, because getting around at Hogwarts, even before the damage, was extremely complicated. Normally, Apparition to, from, or within the school was made impossible, but McGonagall had suspended the spell which made it so temporarily, while repairs were going on. This didn't help me any, just at present, so they very kindly walked us around, and later on, made sure I always had someone with me.

When we visited the Hospital Wing, we met Madam Pomfrey, the school nurse, which the British call a “Matron.” (I decided not to mention that in America, a “matron” is a guard at a women's prison. I'm slowly getting the hang of this diplomacy stuff.) It was a large, high-ceilinged space, full of sunlight from large, many-paned windows; some of those had been broken in the fighting, but were among the very first things to be repaired.

“Really! And how are you feeling now, Mr. Jenkins?” was Madam Pomfrey's instant reaction to the news that I had only been released from St. Mungo's the day before.

“Quite well, thank you, Ma'm,” I replied. “This morning I woke up feeling completely refreshed, without even a twinge anywhere. But I'm not supposed to Apparate for a few days yet, and they want to examine me again before I use a portkey.”

“I see. That does indicate that they feel the healing process is not quite complete. May I ask what was the nature of your injuries?”

I couldn't remember all of them, but when I listed the ones I could remember, all three ladies looked shocked. I was quick to assure them that Harry was fine and no one else had been hurt, but Professor McGonagall said “I had no idea!” and Madam Pomfrey thought it would be a very good idea if she “...just had a bit of a look at you, as long as you're here.” I started to demur, but Blackstone quickly said rather loudly that he thought that was a fine idea, leaving me completely in the lurch as Professors Hooch and McGonagall instantly agreed. They said they would return for me shortly, and left.

Madam Pomfrey didn't make me disrobe, but she did have me move around very thoroughly, and was even more thorough with her questions. It was obvious that there was no way I was ever going to fool this lady, so I didn't try. She examined the potion in my flask with interest, remarking that it seemed to be a “refinement of the usual tissue-and-organ regenerative potions” she was familiar with. She asked who my Healer was, and I had to explain about Jamie (who she hoped would visit Hogwarts so she could meet him), and then when I mentioned Conway, she smiled.

“Oh, yes, Caractacus! I remember him quite well as a student, you know. He was a patient on several occasions, mostly Quidditch injuries. He was forever asking questions, which was rather annoying, actually, at first – until I began to suspect he had the Healers' talent himself, and I found I could keep him quiet for a long time simply by giving him books from my library.” She shook her head fondly with the memory. “I would offer you a bit of Strengthening Solution or Pepperup Potion, but in view of the fact that I don't know the exact formula of the potion you've been given, I think perhaps it would be better not to. Please do feel free to consult me, however, if you should experience any problem, or recurrence of symptoms, while you are here.” I thanked her, and she asked me about my work in America, so I ended up summarizing the story of our troubles and my being sent to Britain. She listened carefully, and then looked at me very seriously.

“I was not at breakfast this morning, but I have been informed that you have donated one hundred thousand galleons to the school rebuilding fund. Can you tell me – is that quite correct?”

“Yes, Ma'm, it is – except that it wasn't me that did the donating, it was the Department of Magic. Secretary Blackstone announced it.”

“Of course. It is wonderfully generous, I can hardly take it in as yet, but everyone is so  _ very _ grateful, you know. And I was told it was announced as an 'initial' donation – does this imply that additional funds may be forthcoming?”

I remembered the discussion Bill Weasley had started about Blackstone's finances, and decided to go out on a limb because I figured it was a pretty sturdy limb. “Well, I don't make those decisions myself, Ma'am, but from what I know, I feel sure that it's certainly possible. We in America are extremely grateful to you – all of you – because what you did here saved us, there can be no doubt of it, from terrible things.” She looked down, and smiled sadly. “In fact, I would strongly suggest that you go right ahead and get in touch with Jamie Two Eagles – Doctor Cogburn. He's now the Department's medical liaison, and I know he very much wants to visit Hogwarts.”

She nodded, thanked me, and said she would send him an owl “straightaway,” just as the door opened and the Headmistress led the others back in. We continued our tour, visiting the greenhouses, where Professor Sprout was busy preparing new plantings of venomous tentaculas and other things which had been ripped out and used as weapons against Riddle's Death Eaters. Then, escorted in each case by the Head, we saw the four Houses, which was a most unusual privilege, since nobody but members were normally allowed in their areas.

Slytherin was underground, done up in the House colors of green and silver, but it had been wrecked when parts of the floors above were blasted into their main space (the “common room”) and bedroom areas. Slytherins are ambitious (sometimes, I gathered, unscrupulously so) and their symbol is a snake; Riddle and many of his followers had been Slytherins. Blackstone eyed the damage and said nothing. We didn't stay there very long.

Ravenclaw (blue and bronze) was up in a high tower, and we found three Wizards and two Witches busy replacing windows and repairing damage to furniture. The Ravenclaws are selected for high intelligence and mental acuity, and their symbol is an eagle. This caused Blackstone and I to exchange glances, and I think he was also wondering if it indicated a particular connection with Americans...or at least some of us.

Hufflepuff (yellow and black) is on the first floor, or more accurately a bit below it, and has a badger for a totem. Their quarters had survived without any damage, other than a layer of dust knocked down from the ceiling, and it felt warm and cheerful there. Members are selected for being friendly, loyal, honest and hard-working, and I liked the place.

Then we went up to Gryffindor, which is also located in one of the towers. Their symbol, of course, is a gryffin, the members are chosen for their courage, and their colors are red and gold. Each House has its own entrance, guarded by a particular set of magic spells. Hufflepuff required you to tap a certain rhythm in a particular place, and Ravenclaw's door only opened when you solved a riddle (which Secretary Blackstone did, to the delight of the Headmistress). Slytherin, like Gryffindor, was protected by a password.

We had been climbing stairways, up and down, all morning, and I was beginning to feel it in my leg muscles as we arrived on the sixth or seventh floor (I lost count) at a blank wall with a painting hung on it. The painting showed a very fat witch, wearing a lot of makeup, who was wearing a voluminous dress of red and white stripes, with a blue bodice featuring two large white stars on her ample bosom. Professor McGonagall smiled and said to me and Blackstone, “If you approve, this is where you will be staying tonight.” Then she turned to the painting and said “It was very good of you to dress for the occasion.”

“Thank you, Headmistress! I'm  _ so _ pleased to meet the American gentlemen.” The fat lady batted her eyelashes, executed a ponderous curtsey, and asked, “password, please?”

“Benjamin Franklin!” said McGonagall, and the painting swung open to reveal a circular opening, which we climbed through. The common room was just inside, and something about it felt...welcoming. Friendly. Homelike. I'm not sure of the right word, but Secretary Blackstone obviously felt the same thing; he put his hands on his hips and looked around with obvious approval. It was a circular room, with a big fireplace between two tall windows, and plenty of overstuffed armchairs (some with ottoman footrests) and comfortable-looking couches. There were tables and tapestries, and plenty of candles which weren't lit, because the sunlight streaming through the many-paned windows was bright.

“This is just fine, Minerva. I feel comfortable here already, and it was very good of you to pick a password we can remember!” I'm not sure just when he and the Headmistress got on first-name terms; it may have been while I was in the Hospital Wing. But I strongly suspected it had happened with unusual speed – Professor McGonagall is every bit as formidable, in her own way, as the Admiral. I did not join this familiarity, though; it would have felt awkward, somehow, probably because being back in a school setting made me feel a lot more like a student once again. Everyone seemed to sense this, and addressed me as “Mr. Jenkins” most of the time – even when they said “Ryan,” I called them “Professor,” or “Sir” or “Ma'am,” and that felt entirely comfortable all around.

“I'm so glad you like it, Alistair. Did you know that Doctor Franklin visited Hogwarts at least a dozen times, during his many years in England?”

“No I didn't. His private Wizard's Diary mentions the school, but it's been years since I read it, and I had the impression he was only here once or twice.”

“Dilys Derwent remembers him very well, and tells me he tried to get here at least once a year, but his many other duties sometimes made that impossible. Still, he came as often as he could, and I'm told he gave a concert here one Christmas, playing fourteen of his famous Armonicas simultaneously by magic.”

“Really! I should love to have heard that.”

“I shall introduce you to Dilys' portrait when we go to my office, and you can ask him about it.”

I had been looking at the tapestry of the gryffin that hung over the fireplace, and turned back toward them. “Professor, where are the bedrooms here?”

“Just through those doors, there and there, and on up the stairs.” McGonagall pointed an admonishing finger at me, and turned it to one of the doorways. “But mind you stay out of  _ that _ one. The girls' dormitory is protected by a special charm: if any male tries to climb those stairs, they turn into a slide and he finds himself back down at the bottom with quite a thump!”

Secretary Blackstone thought that was a lot funnier than I did. I laughed too, anyway, Professor Hooch grinned, and the Headmistress didn't quite grin, but her eyes looked delighted. I sat down in one of the overstuffed armchairs, which proved to be as comfortable as it looked, and suggested we rest for a bit. The others immediately looked concerned, but I said I thought all the stair-climbing was good for me, I just needed to sit down for a few minutes. The others twitched chairs into position with their wands, and we formed a cozy conversational circle in front of the fireplace. The Headmistress pulled a beautiful gold pocket watch out of her robes and snapped it open.

“We shall have to leave in twenty minutes, it's nearly time for lunch. One of my new responsibilities as Headmistress is – if I am coming at all – not to be late for meals.” She put the watch away and looked at Blackstone. “Alistair, I have been thinking about it all morning, and I must tell you that I do  _ not _ know how to thank you for your incredibly generous donation to the rebuilding fund.”

“You've got it upside down, Minerva. It is  _ we _ who do not know how to thank  _ you _ . And mark my words this morning, it's an  _ initial _ contribution. When I arranged the funds with Kingsley Shacklebolt, I was thinking of all the people who gave their lives – and their children – my God, their  _ children _ – but now that I have seen this incredible place, I am beginning to think beyond that.” We were all looking at him; he seemed to be seeing something we could not see. McGonagall finally spoke, in a gentle voice.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when it comes to Magical education, we in the United States are the new kids on the block, as it were, compared to you here at Hogwarts.” The Admiral was focused again, and looked at her intently. “You've got a  _ thousand years _ of experience teaching Wizards and Witches...and judging by the people I've met over here, and the way your people – Hogwarts students, faculty, all of them – have performed, back in the War, I know, and more particularly just now, fighting Tom Riddle and his Death Eaters, you do damned well at it. You probably know that we have five Wizarding schools in America now.”

“Yes, I do – or rather, I should say that I'm aware of their existence, but really, I don't know much about them, I'm afraid.”

“I'd like to change that. I think we have a lot to learn from you...and it's just possible that we've come up with an idea or two that might be helpful here. Could we develop some sort of exchange program?”

“For students?” The Headmistress blinked, and looked interested.

“And teachers, is what I'm thinking. It might be easier to start there, actually. A year, or perhaps a semester, where a Hogwarts professor teaches a given subject in one of the American schools, and an American professor teaches the subject here. Filius Flitwick, for example, is one of the world's leading authorities on Charms...did you know his textbook is used in the States?”

“No I didn't – and I'm not at all sure Filius is aware of it; he's never mentioned that. Although I think he'll be delighted to find out,” she added quickly.

“Hmmmm...I'll have to check, when I get back...he might have some royalties due from the publishers. But I used that book when I was a student at the Magical University of Virginia, and I'm sure he would be welcomed with open arms on any of our faculties.”

“Oh, yes – that's the school Doctor Franklin helped to found, isn't it? Along with your President Jefferson, of course.”

“Well, Mr. Jefferson actually started the school, after Franklin died and left his Wizarding fortune to him for that purpose. But he did follow Franklin's instructions as closely as possible, and the time it took to get Muva up and running was one of the main reasons he delayed founding the Muggle University until 1819.”

“He is still, I believe, the only President of the United States to have been a Wizard,” observed Professor Hooch.

“That's right,” agreed Blackstone; “Wizards have mostly stayed in the background, politically, like Hopkins and Muir, or Franklin himself for that matter.”

“I'm not sure we could spare Filius just now,” said McGonagall thoughtfully, “as he's Head of Ravenclaw, but I do think the idea of an exchange has considerable merit.”

“You're looking for teachers for Magical Theory and Muggle Studies at the moment, aren't you?” said Blackstone, and when both Professors nodded, he continued, “could we possibly help in those areas?”

“Perhaps. But Albus Dumbledore always made it his practice to interview every teacher personally, before engaging them, and I intend to do the same. I hardly like to think of asking someone to come all this way just for an interview.”

“Oh, something could be worked out, I think.”

“And it doesn't have to be strictly academic.” Professor Hooch's comment had drawn my attention to her and a train of ideas had followed, one after another. “What about Quidditch? In the summer, I mean.” I had their attention, and Professor Hooch made a “please explain” gesture with her hand. “We have school teams in America, while Hogwarts has four House teams, which compete against each other. But suppose you formed a Hogwarts team, with the best players from each House, and they came over to the States during the summer break, to play the teams from our different schools in exhibition games? It wouldn't interfere with the school year.”

“That could be a very good first step toward developing an exchange process.” Blackstone was interested, and so, obviously, was Professor Hooch.

“The players do tend to get rather out of practice during the long break,” she observed, “and it would be very helpful, I think, to have at least some players returning in the Fall with their skills sharp.”

“I think the American schools would be interested for much the same reason – I know Coach Paladin at I-WU would!” When the Headmistress frowned in puzzlement, I added, “Indiana Wizarding University, Ma'am, my alma mater,” and her frown disappeared.

“Well, it would certainly help to improve international relations,” she said, “and in a less ambitious and – stressful way, shall we say? – than the Triwizard Tournament. Of course all the students would need their parents' permission, and there would undoubtedly be some costs involved...”

“Which the Department of Magic would be happy to pick up. I like this idea!” Blackstone was definite about it.

“So do I, Headmistress.” Professor Hooch was also.

“Well, it certainly deserves serious consideration, I think,” said McGonagall, looking at her watch again, “which we had better do during – or after – lunch. It's time we were going!”

**************


	21. Afternoon In Late Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After lunch, Ryan demonstrates his computer for Headmistress McGonagall; the portraits in her office are very skeptical, at first.

Lunch was equally delicious, and just as bountiful. Meals at IWU had also been very good, but I was beginning to have thoughts of a house-elves' exchange program, which I decided to put off until the others were established. Professor Hooch took the seat on my other side, and we talked Quidditch enthusiastically throughout the meal. After lunch, at her suggestion, the four of us strolled out on the grounds to the Quidditch “pitch,” as they called it, which was intact except for a couple of scorch marks, and beautifully kept. I heard for the first time that Admiral Blackstone had been a beater on the Muva team in his time, and in his last two years they'd won back-to-back national championships. We heard some remarkable stories of Harry Potter's prowess as a seeker (and Charlie Weasley's, before him), and Professor McGonagall's face glowed with remembered happiness as she told us how the Gryffindor team had won the House Cup.

On our way back we passed the Forbidden Forest, which is home to unicorns and centaurs (which fascinated Blackstone) and giant spiders (which scared the hell out of me). We saw Hagrid's cottage, but not Hagrid, as he was up at the castle helping with repairs; however, we were greeted enthusiastically, and damply, by his enormous slobbering dog, Fang. Returning to the castle in the warm sunshine, Blackstone motioned me up by his side.

“Ryan, it's about time we gave a demonstration of the computer to these folks, but mine is packed, and I'd like to check in with the office in Washington. Do you think you can connect to the Winternet from way up here?” The best I could give him was a definite maybe, because on the one hand, I didn't know what internet connectivity was like in Britain, while on the other, I  _ did _ know that Hogwarts, and Hogsmeade, were located here precisely because it wasn't close to any centers of Muggle population. He grunted unhappily. “Well, do your best.”

Back inside, Professor Hooch left to go help with the spells needed for raising and strengthening the scaffolding which would be needed for the repairs to the roof in the Great Hall. So it was only three of us who stopped in front of a cracked and not-quite-vertical statue of a gargoyle at the bottom of what proved to be the Headmaster's Tower. I never did get a complete count of the towers at Hogwarts; it may be that the number changed from time to time.

“Chrysanthemum sculpture,” said the Headmistress to the gargoyle, who moved aside promptly, but haltingly (can statues have arthritis?), to reveal a doorway with a stone spiral stairs just inside, going upwards. She motioned to the Secretary to go ahead, and he motioned to me to go first – Navy protocol again, I guess. So I went through the door and started to climb the stairway...and it started to revolve. I moved up without moving, and tried hard not to look surprised, but didn't do so well at that since I'd stopped with my feet on two different steps.

The stairway was nothing, however, compared to the Headmistress's Office at the top of the tower. It was a large circular room, brightly lit by tall windows all around. It was full of strange objects on spindly tables, and the walls were hung with portraits (of the previous Heads of the School, I figured out quickly). My eyes were immediately drawn to the largest portrait, hanging behind the desk, of an elderly Wizard with long grey hair, a long grey beard, piercing blue eyes behind half-moon glasses, and a prominent (and crooked) nose. Albus Dumbledore's portrait regarded me with friendly interest, and smiled.

“You must be young Mr. Jenkins from America,” he said pleasantly. “Tell me, how are Harry Potter and his friends getting along?”

“Yes, sir, I am – Ryan Jenkins – very pleased to meet you, sir. All of you,” I added hastily, looking around, as the other portraits were turning their heads to look at me. “Harry and Ron and Hermione are fine, sir, and they send their very best regards.”

“That's splendid – ah! Here, if I am not mistaken, is our benefactor.” The people in the portraits all straightened up and looked beyond me, and I knew Admiral Blackstone had arrived in the room. He stepped up beside me, looking around, and Headmistress McGonagall stepped around him and went behind her desk.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said pleasantly, “I think a formal presentation is in order upon this occasion. You have met Mr. Jenkins, and this is the United States Secretary of Magic, Alistair Blackstone, who this morning announced a donation from his Department of Magic to the Hogwarts Rebuilding fund, in the amount of one hundred thousand galleons.” Blackstone nodded gravely in all directions, as a vigorous round of applause and a rumble of greeting ran around the room. I did hear one of them ask what the “United States” was, and another voice say “Shhhhh! I'll tell you later.” Professor McGonagall pointed her wand, and two armchairs materialized in front of her desk. She gestured to us while seating herself, and we followed her lead.

“Headmistress, we've been discussing ways in which the schools in our two countries might co-operate to our mutual benefit.” In the presence of all these portraits, the Secretary was formal. “With your permission, Mr. Jenkins has something to show you which I think will help facilitate that worthy goal.”

“By all means, Mr. Jenkins.” I drew out the computer and keyboard from my robes and restored them to normal size with my wand. Since Blackstone had addressed her instead of the crowd (as it were) I decided to do the same.

“Headmistress, this is a Muggle device, but it works entirely by Magic. That in itself is nothing new, of course – the Hogwarts Express is essentially the same thing. But this – it's called a 'computer' – is a recent development. Muggles invented them, and theirs are powered by electricity.” This caused a stir among the portraits, although McGonagall sat quietly and regarded me with interest. “We have learned to make this device work by Magic instead, which was actually very difficult, because – despite its much smaller size – it's much, much more complicated than a steam engine. What it does is to process information...in the widest possible sense of that word. However, please understand, it is not alive. It is not aware. It does not think. But it can recognize information, and do things with it...according to how it has been instructed ...by Magic. Written material – words and numbers – is obviously information, but to a computer, sounds and pictures can be turned into information, and that information can be remembered, or 'stored' as we call it, changed, and reproduced.” This was getting pretty dry; I suddenly thought that here I was, giving a lecture to the Heads of Hogwarts! “Well, that's just for starters. Let me show you how it works.”

I stood up, looked around, and decided to put the screen in the direction of the doorway, where it would be visible to as many of the portraits as possible. With a courteous “If I may...” I turned to face the door, drew a good large display, connected things up with the multipair charm, and while I was at it, went ahead and set up four transducer charms equally spaced around the room. The wordprocessing demonstration ran into some resistance I didn't expect. The Headmistress looked odd when I demonstrated the keyboard; little vertical wrinkles of concern appeared above her nose. There were murmurs from the portraits as I typed a short document; I had to ask for a piece of parchment, and she got a roll out of a stack on the desk without a word. When I had transferred the document to the parchment and fixed it, I held it up and said brightly:

“There – permanent, and neat as if it had come from a printing press. Of course you can have your choice of fonts, and...” I trailed off because I was being drowned out by a chorus of dismay from the people in the picture frames.

“No quill and no ink – barbarous!”

“And no chance to practice one's handwriting! That is sure to lead to slovenly...”

“The art of using a quill is one of the most important...”

“What a noise that thing makes! Clickety-clacking away, drive you mad!”

“What, pray tell, is a printing press?”

“Everyone's papers would look the same! No way to differentiate between students...”

“ – or tell who was in a tearing hurry at the last moment.”

“One can always tell a great deal about a student by the quality of the writing. The size of the letters alone...”

“At least he used his wand for something, but still –“

“I don't know that that particular function would be very useful at Hogwarts.” The Headmistress's voice quelled the babble by rising above it. “But I believe this device can do a number of different things?”

I shot her a grateful look and keyed up Mozart's “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,” which impressed them a bit; McGonagall said it sounded a great improvement over their gram-o-phone (whatever that is). Moving pictures – well, I made a bad choice. The scene from  _ The Wizard of Oz _ where Dorothy meets Glinda the Good Witch got nothing but appalled and humorous remarks about how preposterous Glinda's costume and her wand looked, and a dismissive mutter from someone about how “a pensieve is far better, far better.”

Blackstone tried to come to my rescue at that point by suggesting that communications was the main reason we thought this technology might be useful, but he threw me into deeper water because I had to try and quickly find a Winternet connection. Fortunately, he had to define “technology” for them, and then took a while explaining the net and the idea of email. He reassured them, as I had done, that it wasn't going to put owls out of work. This gave me time to look around. As expected, there was nothing at all nearby at ground level, and in some desperation, I fired up one of my OZ programs I hadn't used yet in Britain. Lo and behold, MORBIT found a comsat almost right away, and I told him “It's all right, sir, I'm connected,” just as he was starting to look at me with his eyebrows coming together.

His face cleared, and he took the keyboard, explaining that he was going to send a message to Washington. He typed:  _ Captain Mahan, I'm writing from Hogwarts School. Has Jeff Hemings made any progress on clearing the schools of Parboil influence? He's traveling. If you can reach him please forward. Blackstone _ . Then, explaining what he was doing, he encrypted it with a tap of his wand into  _ George, Scotland is lovely if you like muted colors. The fishing has been so-so, but at least I'm learning how to tie flies properly. See you in two weeks, I hope. If they make me try haggis, my lawyer has my will. Alvin _ – and sent it off.

“Jefferson Hemings is Chancellor of the Magical University of Virginia,” he explained, “and a very old friend of mine. We were students together there, before I went off to Annapolis – the American Naval academy. When Voldemort – I mean, Riddle – died and we cleaned out the Department of Magic, the Undersecretary for Magical Education, Arabella McGuffey, was one of those who simply went catatonic, instead of dying. Hasn't come out of it yet. We have hopes that this meant Slimy Parboil had to keep her under heavy control, because she was resisting his influence. At any rate, Jeff believes his organization came up pretty clean – he only lost his Bursar and an Assistant Professor during the Big Meltdown, as Ryan here calls it. I sent him to check the other schools, but he hadn't reported back before I left to come over.”

Headmistress McGonagall was nodding gravely. “The educational system here was one of Tom Riddle's primary targets, because he had a strong emotional attachment to Hogwarts. Fortunately, Hogwarts was well placed to resist his influences until he took control over the ministry. Even then, I'm proud of the way most of our students, and faculty, were quite successful in resisting the depredations of that – that –  _ Umbridge _ creature.” The tone of her voice when she spoke of that woman, a combination of sheer loathing and implacable hatred flavored with bottomless disgust, took the Admiral aback a little; he hadn't yet heard all the stories I had. But the portraits all made approving noises that sounded like “yah-yah,” and McGonagall went on coolly, “It would seem your Mr. Parboil may not have made Education such an urgent priority, or perhaps having so many Wizarding schools made him take longer in his preparations. Which school did he attend, by the way?”

“Louisiana Magical University,” answered Blackstone. I hadn't known that, but it made sense: LooMoo has always had a reputation for being more into Black Magic than the other schools. “That's down south, near New Orleans, and it has always had a number of – unique influences. I believe Parboil sang in their Vodun Choir as a student, and --”

He was interrupted by the mailbox-lid and bell sound, and looked at me. “You've got mail,” I said, and he opened up a message from “George” about fly-tying and something called “Gerty's Stinkbait.” Decrypted, it read:  _ Alistair, I'm at Mount Shasta. Both USAM and IWU checked out completely clean. California had 3 sudden deaths, but they were minor people and Leland has everything under control. LooMoo had quite a few, including Chancellor Long, and will need further investigation. All in all, though, we're in pretty good shape. Jeff.  _

“Good Heavens,” came Dumbledore's voice from his portrait, “Mount Shasta is in California, I believe. Are we to understand that you got an answer from six thousand miles away in less than five minutes?” That, finally, impressed the entire company.

“Well, my people are generally on the ball, but both Mahan and Hemings must have been using their computers when I wrote,” explained Blackstone with his pride showing through. “Otherwise it might have taken half an hour or more. Leland Oppenheimer, by the way, is the statewide Chancellor at California Wizarding University. Here – I'd better reply.” He wrote  _ Thanks, Jeff. We'll have to meet when I get back. We need a new Undersecretary. Fair warning. Alistair. _ The encryption turned it into a sarcastic remark about Gerty's Stinkbait. 

“But you're using Muggle devices to carry your message, are you not?” asked the Headmistress. Blackstone looked at me.

“Not really, Ma'am,” I said. “The message follows paths that Muggles have laid out, but it's entirely carried by magic.”

She looked at me as if giving a student a pop quiz. “And Muggles cannot detect what you're doing?”

“No, Ma'am.” I was very definite, and shook my head. “We can affect what they do, if we want, but there's no way they can detect the magic itself, or trace it back to us.”

“You're certain of that?”

“Oh yes, Ma'am. It's been...uh...extensively tested, Ma'am.” Blackstone looked at me again, his lips pressed together, and I realized he was trying not to laugh.

“Headmistress, I've just had rather a disturbing thought.” The quiet voice of Albus Dumbledore turned all eyes to his portrait. “Mr. Secretary, do you know if Tom Riddle's agents in your country were also using this – ah – technology?”

“No question about it, sir. And we know they used it to communicate with Americans who were working for Riddle here in this country. If the Dark Lord had prevailed--”

“-- he would have been able to use it himself.” McGonagall finished the thought for him, and Dumbledore's portrait nodded gravely.

Blackstone pushed ahead. “That's a very important point. The whole idea of using Muggle ideas – Muggle  _ technology _ – to make magic work better – to find new ways to use magic – is being explored by dark wizards as well as decent ones. If we don't keep up, we could suddenly find ourselves greatly overmatched by the next Black Wizard or Witch that comes along.” This caused the portraits to mutter and rumble in dismay, and Headmistress McGonagall looked thoughtfully worried. Blackstone seized the moment, and went on, “That's one important reason why we have established a serious research program to examine the whole subject. A systematic, logical approach is clearly the best way to set a watch on the threat landscape.” When Dumbledore's eyebrows went up, the Admiral grinned briefly. “That's Navy talk. And, besides being able to anticipate and counter possible threats from Black Magical uses of Muggle concepts, properly organized research, using our best brains, is the best way to develop any possible benefits for the Wizarding community as a whole...without falling victim to the drawbacks and pitfalls to which individual efforts can so easily be subject.” He had everyone's attention now. One of the portraits started to say “There was a flying car...” but the others shushed him. 

“I think,” said McGonagall slowly, “this is something we shall have to consider.” The portraits looked at each other but did not speak; Dumbledore's picture kept its eyes on the Headmistress, who cocked her head at us and continued, “There is, however, no need to rush into things, especially when I think of all we have on our plates at the moment, repairing and restoring the school.”

“No doubt,” agreed Blackstone. “But now that Kingsley Shacklebolt has put our Special Relationship back on track, we'll be happy to share the results of our work with you.”

“Thank you for that.” McGonagall sounded relieved. “But in the long run, we really must organize our own efforts.” She looked thoughtful. “I think the best way to make a start would be to discuss this with Minister Shacklebolt. There are a number of things that need to be referred to the Ministry...well, you may be sure I will see to this promptly.” She smiled, consulting her pocket watch. “And now I shall have to ask you to excuse me. I promised to inspect the kitchens and have a word with the House Elves this afternoon. They have been quite splendid, you know. Fought like demons in the battle, and have been working themselves half to death ever since. We are going to improve our relations with them now, quite a lot I think, eventually. It will take time, and it's important to make sure we don't make them uncomfortable as we go. So I thought I'd talk with them about it first, and we've had two conversations so far.”

“How have they reacted?” Blackstone was interested.

“Quite well. At least I think so. At any rate, they have made one significant change already. The House Elves have always had their own way of organizing themselves, and I'm afraid Wizards have never really cared to try and understand it. And I'm no better than the rest!” She nodded firmly. “But now they have chosen a Leading Elf – or perhaps they already had one and simply renamed the position; I'm not quite sure about that. But they listen to him, and he apparently does speak for them...perhaps because he is very good at listening to them.”

“What's his name?” I wanted to know.

“Baymar, he's an older elf, and I really quite like him – but the interesting thing isn't his name, it's the name they've given to the office he holds. The leader of the Hogwarts house elves is not the King, or the President, or even the Manager. He's simply called “the Dobby.” She turned to me with sort of a wistful expression. “If they mention him in conversation, they say

'our Dobby,' as if every elf group had one. Perhaps they will, one day. You might let Harry – and Hermione – know about that, when you see them next.”

“Oh yes – yes, I'll be glad to.” Both of them had told me about Dobby, a House Elf who had tormented Harry and Ron, trying to keep them away from Hogwarts in order to save Harry's life, or so he thought. He probably heard plenty of threats, because he worked for old man Malfoy, whose son Draco gave Harry a lot of trouble in school. Then Harry got him freed, and later Dobby really did save Harry's life, and several others, rescuing them from Volde-- that is to say, from Riddle's gang. But Dobby was killed in the process, and they buried him with honor. Wizards don't generally have anything to do with elf funerals, it's true, and it looked like this had had a profound effect on the Hogwarts elf community. I had also heard about Hermione's attempt to start an “elf-liberation” movement, and decided this was not the moment to bring it up; more of that diplomacy, I guess.

Blackstone ended up going along with McGonagall to see the House Elves and meet with the Dobby, but I didn't. Bringing along someone from Magical Law Enforcement wouldn't strike the right note, we all agreed. When we got down to the first floor, I left them and walked out on the grounds. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, shadows were lengthening, and I looked out over the green rolling hills of the lawn, which was still marred in places by brown or black splotches and filled-in holes.

Down the slope I could see Hagrid's cottage; behind it stretched the Forbidden Forest – I had already been warned about it often enough to make me think of it with capital letters. Blackstone had heard of it just today, from McGonagall, but I had gotten an earful from Ron Weasley, who – along with Harry and Hermione – had been in it several times. It turns out that Ron and I share the same reasonable, intelligent, scientifically detached attitude toward spiders: instant loathing, escalating quite quickly to naked fear. And then, when spiders reach the size of a delivery van (well, that's what he said), blind screaming terror. Perfectly natural reaction.

Look, I'll admit I'd love to see a Unicorn, it would be amazing. Centaurs, though, are seriously problematical: there aren't many left in North America, but Jamie had told me about them. They barely tolerate certain individuals from the First Nations, and exhibit monumental contempt for almost everyone of European descent. And Hermione had told us both, with considerable relish, what happened to Dolores Umbridge. But even if I'd been guaranteed a friendly welcome from the horse-men, the spiders were more than enough to keep the forest Forbidden. At that point in my reverie, the sunlight was interrupted by a shadow that passed over me. At first I thought it was a cloud crossing the sun, but then it stopped and said,

“Ye'll not be thinkin' o' goin' in ter th' forest, now, would yeh?” I'm pretty quick on the uptake, so I turned around while bending backwards. I found a moment to be amazed that I hadn't heard something that big coming up behind me.

“Not on your life, Hagrid! Ron told me all about the spiders, and he and I think exactly alike on that subject.”

“Aye, that's just as well, I s'pose,” Hagrid smiled, nodding, and then looked me frankly in the eye. “But there, ol' Aragog warn't a bad sort, not really, y'understand. Not win y' get ter know 'im, or I oughter say 'er. When she passed on, Harry an' Professor Slughorn helped me bury 'er in m' garden, did y' know that?”

All I could think of to say was, “No.”

Then he grinned and clapped me on the shoulder – I've had bludgers hit me more gently. “Tell yeh what, I was just goin' home ter feed Fang and 'ave a cuppa. Whyn't yer come along? Glad ter have yeh!” He didn't say a cup of what, but I'd heard that one before, and assumed he meant tea.


	22. Tea With Hagrid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...can be a bit risky, but Ryan is doing all right...until Hagrid says something startling.

As we walked down to the cottage, I had to stretch my legs to keep up, and had a flashback to a memory of walking with my Dad, when I was about four. It didn't last, though. Dad's hair is short and neat and brown, not black and all over the place, and he's never worn a beard of any kind, much less a vast black thatch that hid just about everything except the nose and eyes. Hagrid's eyes are just as friendly, though, when he smiles.

When we got close to the cabin, a large dark lump in the grass lifted its head, bayed for a moment, sliding between notes that would all fall in the cracks between the keys on a piano, then leaped up and bounded toward us, barking loudly. Fang approached Hagrid like a motorcycle heading for a jump over some cars (he's just about that big) and bounced off his chest; after a flurry of “good boy”s and “wocher!”s and some petting that would have reduced an ordinary dog to a grease spot, he came over to me. We had met earlier, and I had been sniffed and slobbered upon. Now the dog – a “boarhound” according to Hagrid – skipped the sniffing part and went right to slobbering. I didn't mind, because I like dogs and he was actually very friendly, but also because I learned how to clean up after such things with my wand when I was dating Diane...and that's all anyone is ever going to know about that!

The cabin is a one-room affair. It made me remember Abraham Lincoln's birthplace down in Kentucky, which is really a careful replica of the original; our family visited there one summer. Hagrid's place is quite a bit bigger, and has a window, but the main difference really is that today, the Lincoln cabin is enclosed by a replica Grecian temple in stone, complete with carved columns and a sweeping stone staircase leading up the hill. I've always wondered what Honest Abe would say if he saw it. Probably something pretty funny.

Inside, there was a really big bed in one corner, with a quilted spread, a lot of pots and stuff hanging from walls and rafters, and a great stone fireplace. It felt comfortable, and I felt welcome. Hagrid stirred up the fire, chucking on some logs from a bin and giving it a zap with a pink umbrella he pulled out of his robes. I can't blame myself for looking startled, and he explained a bit sheepishly that he'd had to hide his wand in that umbrella for many years. “An' now I guess I'm kinda used ter it, if y' see what I mean,” he finished, as he hung a bright copper kettle over the flames. While the kettle heated, he waved me to a chair beside the table – both kind of big but extremely sturdy-looking – and bustled about, setting a hefty china teapot on the table and putting some lumpy cakes on a plate. They clinked, like pieces of concrete rubble.

“Rock cakes wi' raisins,” he said proudly, “same as I gave 'arry an' Ron an' 'ermione, first time they came t' tea. They wuz tiny things then, first years, y'see, only eleven. But already startin' to poke in ter things an' solve mysteries, as yeh might say.” The kettle was boiling noisily. He dumped a handful of something into the teapot (I didn't dare ask) and filled it from the copper spout, clapping on the lid. Putting the kettle on the hearth, he got a couple of large ceramic mugs from the mantlepiece; mine had a little chip but looked clean. It said “Brighton Pier” on the side in faded but colorful lettering.

The tea turned out to be just that – tea. I was prepared for this; at least I thought so, because the subject had come up, that first evening at the Burrow, and Ginny and Ron and Hermione had a great time filling me in. The thing is, I like tea; although it's coffee I go to every morning, I've enjoyed a cup of tea now and again, later in the day, and iced tea is lovely. But I learned to drink it without any additives except a lemon wedge, and in Britain that's just Not Done. Or rather, if it is Done nobody will say anything but everyone will think you're a hopeless primitive. They feel certain that all civilized people put milk (or cream if they can get it, wow) and sugar in their tea, and stir it into a lukewarm sweet mess that's kind of like thin Ovaltine without the chocolate, instead of the tart and bracing pick-me-up it was intended to be.  _ When in Rome, be a Roman candle _ , I thought to myself as I stirred in large dollops of both adulterates. Hagrid was obliviously generous, and I smiled. 

The rock cakes, however, were entirely too well named. I almost broke a tooth. When Hagrid got up to feed Fang, I tried a softening spell I'd learned from a friend in school, who had a baby in the family – his mom used it to turn any food into pablum. What we used it for then has no part in this story. After eight or nine applications, the rock cake was about the consistency of a spare tire, when Hagrid returned. He'd taken a large lump of meat (don't ask, I didn't want to know) from somewhere in the rafters and mercifully tossed it outside; Fang followed it with a mournfully joyous bark.

“All righ'?” aske Hagrid as he settled back.

I swallowed a good-sized gulp of – let's just call it tea, OK? It had tea in it – deciding it was perfectly drinkable after all, just different. “Very much all right. Thanks, Hagrid. I needed a bit of something after all that walking.”

“Thought yeh might.” He nodded sagely. “Ye're the first American I've had as me guest here. I 'ad an owl from 'ermione t'other day, said a couple o' Americans 'ad arrived, but she di'n' say too much about yeh. Careful girl, 'ermione.”

“Yes, she is. We've been keeping things quiet. We didn't come over for publicity, we came over to see if we could help.”

“Well, yeh done that, all righ'! A hundred thousan' galleons, blimey! That'll help no end. Th' 'eadmistress jes' got an owl last nigh', sayin' you'd be on this mornin's Express, 'an when she told me she was proper surprised that th' Secretary 'imself was comin'. You Americans move fast, I'll say that for yeh! I guess y' knew t' look up 'arry, soon as yeh got here, t' find out what's what.”

“Actually, no, not really. I mean, I'd heard of him, but we really didn't know what all was going on over here, and didn't have any contacts lined up. It was just luck that I happened to go to Diagon Alley and ran into George Weasley when he came down to re-open the shop – Weasley's Wizarding...”

“--Wheezes, yeh. I was wonderin' what he'd do about that, what with Fred coppin' it in th' battle...did they tell yeh about that? Terrible, it was, jes' terrible.” Hagrid looked like he was about to cry, so I hastened to assure him I had already heard the worst. And then to distract him from his memories I quickly plunged into the story of my journey and adventures. From everything I'd been told, I knew Hagrid was true-blue and reliable, but sometimes could be a little careless about letting things slip out in conversation, so I glossed over some of the details, and barely mentioned the computer; but when he asked questions, I gave him straight answers. At one point, he said I might want to go easy on the rock cakes, as he'd heard they were “layin' on a proper feast for yeh this evenin',” and I hope I didn't sound as glad to comply as I actually was. He was more interested in the Weasleys than the doings at the Ministry, and was especially interested in anything I could tell him about Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione. I think he missed them, a lot.

It was on my third “cuppa” that I happened to remark that I guessed we might be the first Americans to visit Hogwarts since Ben Franklin, and he corrected me. “Naw, we've had some over the years, now an' then. There were some came and went, back when I was a student, but o' course I never met 'em, just 'eard about it, and saw a couple once, goin' down a hallway.” He drained his fifth or sixth mug of tea. “Last time was quite awhile back, though, I grant yeh – twenty-five years if it's a day. Two fellas came, officials like, and met wi' Dumbledore. He introduced 'em at dinner, but I don' remember their names. One was a medium-size feller, dark hair, and t'other was a tall feller – a what-d'ye-call-em, a—a cowboy. Like in yer movies I seen, a time or two – 'ad a big hat with a cut-off crown, not like a proper wizard's hat, although it was black, and th' brim curved up on the sides, and 'e wore fancy boots with real pointy toes.”

Maybe the tea helped, but I was wide awake and alarm bells were going off in my head. “Hagrid, what color were his boots?”

“Light brown, or tan as y' might say. They had designs all worked in 'em, in colors.”

“Oh. Hmmm. Do you remember what his face looked like?”

He thought and frowned. “Not exactly. Kind of a long face, I'd say. Square, like. Clean shaven, the both of 'em.”

“Anything else?”

“Don' think so...wait a bit. Curly blond hair, that cowboy, if I'm rememberin' right...and his eyes were light-colored, kind o' pale.” He gave me a quizzical look. “What's all this, then? D'yeh know this feller?”

“No...but I might have seen him.” I told him about the man at the ticket counter, and the passing figure in Diagon Alley, and then about how I recognized the boot leather when I saw the dead basilisk at the Ministry.

“Basilisk-skin boots! That's right dodgy, that is. Nasty. I'd think it'd be hard to work that leather, prob'ly dangerous too.”

“And where'd he get it? Cowboy boots are an American style. Even over here, your average cobbler doesn't have a basilisk hide in his workshop, I'd wager.”

“Too right. The only bloke I can think of what had any truck with basilisks was...” He looked up at me, eyes wide, and we said it together.  
“Voldemort.”

Hagrid grimaced. “Still feels kind o' strange, sayin' that name.”  
“Harry says we ought to call him Tom Riddle, because that's who he was, really. The Lord Voldemort thing was just something he made up.”

“Aye, that's the way. Harry's right, as he usually is. But look 'ere, there's Professor McGonagall – she was there, back then, an' she'll remember those two, like as not. You ought to ask her.”

“I will. And I must tell the Admiral about this – I mean the Secretary – well, he's both – right away. Hagrid, thank you, this has been a lovely tea, and I'd love to talk with you more, but I think I'd better get back up to the castle.”

“Now don't be goin' off before yeh know where yer headed. Ron an' Harry used to do that, an' 'ermione'd bring 'em down to earth. Yeh don't  _ know _ that the cowboy who came 'ere is the same bloke you saw, now do yeh?”

“No, but that's why I've got to check up on it. Would you recognize this guy if you saw him again?”

“Mmmmm....maybe. 'S been awhile. McGonagall's a sharp one, though, she might, and there's prob'ly others.”

“Right.” I stood up. “Thanks again, Hagrid! This might be important, but even if not, I've had a great time.”

“Awww, it's nothin', glad ter have you, Ryan, and yeh come back, now, first chance y'get!”

Assuring him that I certainly would, I set off up the hill, moving my legs even faster than when I came down. After three big mugs of tea, I had another reason to get back to the castle pronto. It was not very much later when I stepped out into one of the vaulted hallways, my urgency refocused on the mysterious cowboy, and encountered Professor Flitwick hurrying by.

“Professor!” He looked up at my hail, smiled, and started toward me. I took two or three steps in his direction, which saved him six or seven.

“Ah, Mr. Jenkins! This is quite splendid, at least I think it is!” His voice could not have been a greater contrast with Hagrid's, precise, articulate, and several octaves higher. “I was only just now asked to 'keep an eye peeled' for you – such a delightful way with words, your Secretary has – and I was going along, trying to design a summoning charm for an American; it needed to be one that would bring you without bothering anyone else, you see, and here you are!Perhaps I accomplished a nonverbal spell without realizing it. Most remarkable! Unless, of course, this is simply a co-incidence. I believe those do actually happen from time to time, although dear Sybil – Professor Trelawney, that is – firmly believes co-incidence is entirely mythological, and I think Septima Vector would say that Arithmancy proves it so.”

I hadn't the faintest clue about how to answer that, but after a couple of weeks in Britain I was getting used to that experience and simply changed the subject. “I was down having tea and, uh, rock cakes with Hagrid.”

“Oh, dear! I hope your teeth are all right.”

“They're fine, thanks, I was careful. But I was wondering where to find Secretary Blackstone, and it sounds like you've just left him.”

“Quite right, so I have. He and the Headmistress are having tea in the Gryffindor Common Room; they invited me when we happened to encounter each other in the kitchens. They will still be there, I should think – they were deep in discussion when I left.”

“That's great!” I stopped with my mouth open and looked around. “Ahhh...which way is the Gryffindor Common Room?”

“Ah! Yes, of course. You can hardly have learned to find your way about yet, can you? Come with me, then, I'll show you.”  
“Thanks very much! It is a little....all the stairways...”

“Precisely.” He set off down the hall at a brisk walk, and I had that momentary flashback once again, only this time from my Dad's point of view. I've noticed that British people don't like to have pauses in a conversation, once it gets going. If Flitwick had been American, we probably would have walked along in companionable silence. Instead, I was trying to think of something to say. I didn't want to mention the cowboy, not before telling Blackstone and McGonagall, and I was thinking up a remark about the kitchens and the elves when, true to form, the diminutive Professor spoke up.

“Do you know, Secretary Blackstone tells me that my book,  _ Practical and Useful Charms for Witches and Wizards _ , is being used as a text in your American schools? Or at least some of them, at any rate?” 

“Yes, he mentioned that he had your book in his class at the Magical University of Virginia. I went to Indiana Wizarding, and we had two others,  _ Basic Charms _ and  _ Advanced Charms _ , as regular texts, but your book was assigned as extra-credit reading in the advanced course. It was very elegantly written.” 

“Splendid! I am going to send an owl to my publisher, and inquire about the American sales.”

“Oh...yes. I hope there won't be any trouble about the royalties, or anything.”

“Oh, I don't expect there will be.” He gave an airy wave of his hand and what sounded like a guttural giggle. “I put a counting charm on each edition – one that's  _ not _ in the book...except that it's contained within the text itself. I'm rather proud of it, actually. It will tell me exactly how many copies have been made, and if anyone except my publisher attempts to make their own copies, it turns the words into gibberish. And here we are!” He gestured at a staircase. “Straight up these stairs, and when you get to the fourth landing, it will swing round and take you right up to the Fat Lady's portrait.”

“That, I can handle. Thank you very much, Professor!”

“Please don't mention it, delighted to help. But I must be getting along to my office. There's rather a lot of work piling up, revising my budget and estimates for the coming term. Cheerio!” And with that he was gone, off down the hallway. He moved surprisingly quickly; I hadn't had to shorten my stride at all.

At the top of the stairs, the Fat Lady was still wearing her stars-and-stripes outfit. She would have looked right at home in a 1940s movie musical, if they had had Cinerama back then. “Hello!” she said, beaming. “They told me to expect you. What's the password, please?”  
“Benjamin Franklin,” I replied and couldn't help grinning.

“Thank you!” She bobbed down, doing a curtsey as the picture swung. I climbed through the hole and immediately heard the Headmistress' voice.  
“...hadn't thought of it in just that way. It's really a very good point, Alistair, and I do think it will carry weight with the Board.”

“Excellent. We'll be ready whenever you – ah! There's our wandering boy now.” Blackstone saw me come in and gestured toward the sofa. He and McGonagall were seated in armchairs, facing each other across a small table bearing a silver tea service, cups, and a plate with a couple of small cakes on it. “Where've you been? We had a fascinating tour of the kitchens.”

“I went down to his cottage and had tea with Hagrid.”

“Oh, dear. Are your teeth alright?” McGonagall looked concerned until I grinned and showed no damage.

“Fine, thank you, ma'm. Ron and Hermione kinda told me what to expect. But Hagrid told me something I'd like to ask you about, if I may.”

“Certainly.”

“You'll be interested in this too, Admiral. I guess first I ought to tell you...” I had to back up and explain about my one and possibly two encounters with the cowboy, and the basilisk-skin boots. Blackstone frowned.

“Why didn't you tell me about this sooner, son?”  
“I'm sorry, sir, but things have been moving so fast lately...”

“And top speed was probably when you and Harry left that office building. Say no more. Getting blown up does seem to drive lesser things from people's minds, I've noticed.”

“Yes sir. But what I wanted to ask you about, ma'm, Hagrid and I were talking about other Americans who've visited Hogwarts, and he said the last time any were here was about twenty-five years ago. A couple of Wizards – 'officials, like' is what he said – came to see Professor Dumbledore. He couldn't remember their names, but said one of them was medium height, with dark hair...”

“Oh, yes. Mr....Parboil, I think his name was. We were introduced, but that was all. They spoke with Albus, and...” She inclined her head in a half-apologetic way “...I rather kept my distance. I'm afraid I didn't like him much.”

“Which just goes to show your excellent judgment and fine sense of character appreciation, Minerva.” Blackstone turned to me. “Slimy Parboil was here?”

“Slimy?” McGonagall's eyebrows were up.

“He didn't use that name himself, but almost everyone who ever met him did,” said Blackstone. “Sylvester Koch Parboil was Secretary of Magic just before me, and after he...ah...left office, we found the Dark Mark on his body.”

“A Death Eater! I didn't think...when I met him...”  
“He may not have been a Death Eater then. But who was the second guy, with him?”

“Hagrid said he was tall and thin, with curly blond hair, and he was a cowboy. Wore a cowboy hat and boots, anyhow.”

“Yes! That's quite right. He had rather a long, square chin, I believe.”

“Do you remember his name?” Blackstone was intent.

“I've been trying to think...it was something a bit unusual. Hocking? Howitzer, perhaps?”

“Holiday?”

“Yes! That was it! Holiday. I never did catch his first name.”

“Walpurgis.”

“What?” Now it was my turn to look surprised, and Blackstone's to look just a bit smug.

“Walpurgis Ignatz Theodophilus Chauncey Holiday.”

“Merlin's beard! What a name. The initials...”

“His parents must have wanted a girl.” I was so amazed I didn't realize I was interrupting the Headmistress, but she didn't seem to mind.

Blackstone shook his head. “These days it might be considered child abuse. But nobody ever called him that, except maybe his mother, and probably not for long. Being from Texas, he was known as “Tex” Holiday, on an or-else basis.”

“Or else?” I prompted.

“Or else you were liable to run in to some really, really bad luck. The kind that sends you to a hospital.” The Headmistress and I looked at each other, and back at Blackstone, who smiled grimly. “Oh yeah. When I was a student, he and I ran into each other. Several times. Real hard. During a Quidditch match. I was a Beater for Virginia that year, and we were playing Louisiana Magique University – it was a home game, they'd come up to Charlottesville, and Holiday was a one of their Chasers. We'd been told about their players, of course, during practice, and somehow our Coach had found out their full names. Holiday was playing real rough – he damn near sent one our Chasers slamming into a goalpost hard enough to kill her, and she was a friend of mine. She was quick, and just managed to miss it, but it p-- uh, it made me mad, so I decided to try and get his goat.” He grinned ruefully. “I was much more successful than I intended. He did start neglecting the quaffle, as I'd hoped, but only to begin crashing into me. I called him each of his names, in a whiney voice, and when I got to 'Chauncey,' he lost it. Pulled out his wand, put a body-bind curse on me, and sent both bludgers rocketing at me. I woke up in the hospital, the next day, and they told me I'd fallen forty feet, my broom was snapped in half, Holiday had been ejected from the game, and we had won by two hundred and sixteen points.”

“Outrageous! A body-bind curse! At Hogwarts, he would have been instantly removed from the team.”

“Did you get back at him next time?” I wanted to know.

“No, sometime before we played Louisiana again, Holiday was expelled from the school. I'm not sure what he did, but it must have been something pretty rotten; mere bad sportsmanship wouldn't get a student chucked out of  _ that _ school; attempted murder might not even do it. I've never known what happened to him...until now, that is. Finding him connected to Parboil is no surprise, I suppose, but I wonder how he got a job with the Department, if he hadn't graduated from LooMoo. Ryan, fire up your computer – let's see if there are any records in Washington.”

Now that I knew the connection, I was very quickly ready, and looked up at him with my fingers on the home row on the keyboard. “Send it to Mahan, of course,” he began, and then dictated:  _ Immediately investigate Department files on Walpurgis Holiday, full name Walpurgis Ignatz Theodophilus Chauncey Holiday, from Texas. He was probably born around 1946, and is known to have attended and been expelled from Louisiana Magique University in the 1960s. The British report he worked here with Parboil in the 1970s. Report on Department files soonest, but keep the inquiry quiet. Information from any source is welcome. Blackstone. _

The encryption turned it into  _ Albert, I finally took your advice and invested in a Welsh-English dictionary and a raincoat. The people in the village are very nice, but when they speak Welsh they do tend to spray a bit. It's a lovely country, but confusing. The people seem quite normal, hardworking and very honest. It is said they never fail to pay if they lose a bet, but I'm also told they make pie out of shepherds and do something else with the sheep. The dictionary will finally let me read the road signs, although I wouldn't dare try to pronounce them, and I hope to be able to find my way back to London. Clementine.  _ I sent it off, and when I did, I suddenly noticed that the icon on the inbox (I use a red-tailed hawk) was flapping. 

“Admiral, I've got mail, and it's for you. From Captain Mahan.”

“Oh! I should probably be getting back to my office...”

“No, no, please stay, Minerva. Go ahead and put it on the screen.”

It came up as an innocent letter about peonies, snapdragons, and potting soil mixtures, but when decrypted it read:  _ Mr. Secretary, the President has asked for a meeting with you as soon as possible. He wants to be updated on your progress and the current situation before he goes to Colorado for the Summit meeting. We told him you were traveling, and he asked you to expedite your return. Please advise when you will be coming back, so we can arrange an appointment. Mahan. _

“Well. This does change things a bit. I had hoped to see something of Hogsmeade, but I can't keep the President waiting.”

“Does this mean you will have to leave immediately?” McGonagall sounded disappointed, and Blackstone smiled.

“Tomorrow morning will do just fine – trans-Atlantic portkeys are one of the things we've never gotten around to telling Muggles about. Even the President; he'll expect me to use an airplane. Which reminds me, Ryan, how was your flight over? Did you see that cowboy on the plane?”

“Only once, sir, as I boarded – he was flying first class.” I looked at McGonagall and explained, “First class passengers sit in the front of the plane. They board first, and exit first, but everyone has to pass through their seating area. I was back in the economy-class seats in the rear.” Looking at Blackstone, I continued, “He was reading a magazine and didn't look up when I shuffled past.”

Blackstone's face was a study. “You flew economy?”

“Yes sir.” I discovered I could not resist adding, “In the middle seat, between a skinny guy and a really fat woman. Muggles, of course. Admiral, do you know how  _ long _ it takes one of those things to get to London?”

“I, ah...” The Admiral's eyes had widened as I spoke, and now he had a small coughing fit. When it passed, he looked severe, but the laugh lines around his eyes were crinkled. “I...do, as a matter of fact. I've flown that route a number of times.” Now he turned to look at the Headmistress. “Takes about eight hours, Minerva, flying time – plus an hour or more on each end getting through the terminal.”

“It sounds quite terrifying. All that time, suspended in the air, without using any magic? I should be frightened out of my wits.” She shook her head. “Even that flying car of Arthur Weasley's would be safer. A portkey is absolutely certain, and takes no time at all.”

He turned back to me. “Maybe it's just as well that you weren't in first class, Ryan, although you were supposed to be. I'll look into that.”  _ Oh, ho!  _ I thought.  _ Batten down the hatches, Loretta, stormy weather ahead. _ I tried not to let my satisfaction show, and fortunately the Admiral was going right on, “Minerva, you're right of course, a portkey is the only way to travel, and mine is in London. Besides, I really should look in at the Ministry before I go; I'm sure the President understands diplomatic necessities! Hmmmm....does the train run every day?”

“The Hogwarts Express went back to London today, and I believe it is coming back tonight with more supplies,” said McGonagall thoughtfully. “I'll just confirm that with Septima – she's been working out the schedules.”

At that moment, the mailbox opened, the Tibetan bell rang, and the hawk began flapping. “You've got mail, Admiral.” It looked like a recipe for something called Welsh Rabbit, with a request to please find out if the recipe was authentic, and why it doesn't have any rabbit in it?

Decrypted, it read:  _ We have found no records indicating that Walpurgis I.T.C. Holiday ever worked for the Department in any capacity. His enrollment and expulsion from LMU is on record 1964-1966 but no reason is recorded. No birth records were found. The University record is the only mention in Department files, and I wonder if perhaps it was overlooked when someone cleaned them out? Joseph Baggaluci remembers hearing about Holiday at the time of his expulsion, and says it was something involving Black Magic. He heard a story about a curse on an alligator-hunting family, resulting in several people being eaten and dead alligators clogging sewers in the French Quarter, but we haven't been able to corroborate this as yet. Baggaluci also says he was told that Holiday claimed descent from John Henry Holiday, AKA “Doc,” who was expelled from M.U.Va., in 1863, for cheating at cards and lying about it, and a Muggle woman called “Big Nose Kate,” who kept company with Doc for a time. I am setting further quiet inquires on foot in Louisiana and in Texas. Mahan. _

“Well,” said Blackstone, pursing his lips. “Curiouser and curiouser. You did say he was introduced as a Department official, Minerva?”

“Yes...well, let me see...Mr. Parboil was the American Wizarding Liason Officer, I'm quite sure, and I believe Albus introduced Mr. Holiday as his 'aide' – but I don't recall any more specific title. I certainly believed they were both working for your Department of Magic.”

“And yet we have no records of his employment, almost no records of his very existence. Where has he been, all this time? What was he doing here?” Blackstone turned his head and looked at me. “And more to the point at the moment...”

“...what is he doing here  _ now _ ?” I finished for him. 

**************


	23. Capital Ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in London, Blackstone goes home -- but not before setting Ryan up as bait.

I'm glad we took the train back to London, partly because Crackers Conway had told me not to use portkeys until I'd been examined again, and partly because the train ride was lovely in the daytime, but mostly because the banquet at Hogwarts that evening was a doozy. Wouldn't have missed it for the world! Heaps of absolutely delicious food on those golden plates (I think the house elves had made a special effort), and Alistair and I were treated like a couple of long-lost friends. There was a lot of laughter, and people made speeches – Alistair got up and told a “yarn” about his student days which had everyone in stitches, and then said some very moving things about Hogwarts which brought people to their feet again. I was made to say something, and all I could think of was to say some things about looking forward to working with Harry, and about our hopes for cooperation between Hogwarts and American schools. To my surprise they cheered me too, Alistair patted me on the back, and Minerva McGonagall gave me a kiss on the cheek. I must have been pretty red in the face when I sat down to continue stuffing myself.

Hagrid came up for the meal, and was seated next to the Admiral. They had a good chance to talk, between bites. Some people from Hogsmeade were there as well, including an older Wizard with startling blue eyes who was seated at the head table and turned out to be Aberforth Dumbledore, Albus's brother, who was the “landlord” of a pub in town. He wasn't a talkative sort of person; when we were introduced I had it in mind to ask him about his brother, but something told me that wouldn't be a good idea, and I didn't. He did tell me that he was glad we had come; “...now that you're here, it's good to hear laughter at Hogwarts again.” He gave a half-smile, and I took that as a compliment; it was only long afterward that I got around to wondering if he'd meant anything else.

That night, Blackstone and I climbed the stairs into the Gryffindor Tower, and found a remarkable circular bedroom with luxurious four-poster beds, complete with curtains and drapes of red velvet, trimmed in gold. They were wonderfully comfortable, and after all the exertions and revelations and superb meals, I went out like a candle in a crosswind.

The Headmistress and about fifteen or twenty others came to see us off the next morning, after another amazing breakfast. We rode to the station in the carriages, and it was kind of spooky because I couldn't see the thestrals in the harnesses. When I said something about that, Blackstone just shook his head and said “You will someday, son, but don't hurry it,” with a funny little smile. The train pulled out amid lots of waving, and this time, of course, we could see the countryside as we rolled along, sitting in big armchairs. Lunch turned out to be wicker baskets, packed with enough food for five, and we both fell asleep after that. Dusk was falling when I awoke, to find Blackstone looking out the window as we chugged through the approaches to London. I said something about having missed some of the scenery, and he grinned.

“If there's one thing I learned in the Navy, Ryan, it's this – now hear the wisdom of the ages! – never miss a chance to sleep, eat, or pee...because the next opportunity might be farther off than you think.” On the train, I wemailed Blackstone's plan to return to Washington the following day, and Captain Mahan had replied that they had no further information about our mysterious cowboy yet, and the President had asked for a midnight meeting. Blackstone said that would be no problem, as he would gain five hours crossing the Atlantic. “Clinton likes midnight meetings, with me at any rate. I think he's seen a lot of old movies, and it tickles his sense of humor. And, of course, it does make it easier to keep things quiet if I don't show up in the upstairs fireplace until after he's sent everyone off to bed.”

Arthur Weasley met us at the station with a Ministry car, and took us to Claridge's Wizarding, where Kingsley and Harry were waiting in the private dining room, which was just the right size for five people – as usual. Over dinner and butterbeer, we filled them in on our doings at Hogwarts.

“I'm glad to hear they're making good progress,” said Kingsley. “The damage to the old place was simply awful.”

“Yes, it was,” agreed Arthur. “But you know, what with all the personal tragedies, and the people who needed help...” He sighed deeply and shook himself. “...I think we've all tended to push the physical destruction toward the back of our minds, rather. Although perhaps not you, Harry, quite as much as the rest of us.”

Harry sat, looking at nothing, for a moment. Then he focused on Alistair and me, in turn, and a corner of his mouth went up. “I...don't really know how to say it,” he said with a wry echo in his voice. “Hogwarts was such an... _ amazing _ thing for me. It was the first place I ever felt at home.” He cocked his head and somehow managed to look us both in the eye. “That's something I had in common with Tom Riddle, you know. Hogwarts was – is! – a very special place, and we both felt at home there.”

“Harry,” said Blackstone kindly, “Hogwarts  _ is _ an  _ amazing _ place. Ryan and I were just blown away when we saw it.” I was nodding vehemently, and he went on, “It's a treasure house of magical knowledge, upon a thousand-year foundation....entirely aside from its recent magnificent achievements in saving us all from Tom Riddle. It's obviously essential, not just for you British but for the entire Magical world, that Hogwarts be repaired and restored.”

“Kingsley told us about the donation, sir.” Harry's mouth worked, as he looked at Blackstone. “I...I literally have no words...I don't know how to say this either, what it means to me..to all of us.” He stopped, glanced at me and looked back at Blackstone.

“Quite right,” put in Arthur, with feeling, but he too seemed at a loss for words.

“I'm just glad we can help,” said Blackstone simply. “ I could say it's not a patch on what  _ you _ did...but I won't.”

“Thanks for that!” Harry smiled suddenly. “One of my best memories, ever, is the evening I arrived at Hogwarts for the first time. I've used it to make a Patronus – it makes a really good one!”

Blackstone grinned. “I'll bet it does! Ryan and I have just had that same experience, and I think I can speak for both of us...” He looked sideways at me and I was nodding again. “...to say that even with all the damage, it was an incredible experience we'll remember for the rest of our lives. How was it for you, Harry? How did you first get there?”

“Well, Dumbledore placed me with my Aunt and Uncle, which kept me safe from Death Eaters and the like, growing up, but they're Muggles, and I wasn't told about the Wizarding world. I didn't have the ghost of a clue that a place like Hogwarts could possibly exist, until Hagrid chased me down and carried me off.” I had heard about Harry's relatives, and he had quickly mentioned the outlines of this event, but Blackstone drew Harry out, with gentle, unerring skill, until we heard the whole story of how Harry discovered he was a Wizard, learned magic was real, and arrived at Hogwarts. I realized what Blackstone was doing: leading Harry back through this experience to bring us – and especially him – back out of all the sad and serious memories. It worked, too. Harry was delighted to hear we'd come across the lake, just as he had. He finished by saying happily, “...and it really was a completely overwhelming experience, especially coming straight out of the blue like that, but it was overwhelmingly wonderful.”

The next morning, Mahler brought the dawn at 7 a.m., and the heavenly smell of coffee on the sideboard brought me out of bed. Showered, shaved, breakfasted and immaculately dressed (my robes had been cleaned while I was conked out – they looked, felt, and smelled brand new), we took the Floo Network and stepped out of a fireplace at the Ministry on the dot at 8. The Witch at the desk, a cheerful plump lady in aquamarine robes, greeted us warmly and directed us to Harry's office, where we found Kingsley, Bill, Ron, Hermione, and Elliott Witherspoon.

“I thought it would be best to get you Aurors off and running – so to speak – first,” said Kingsley, “so that Alistair and I can have a good talk before he leaves. When did you want to depart, Alistair?”

“Mid-afternoon, I'm thinking,” replied Blackstone. “That'll put me in Washington with time to meet with my people and bring them up to speed, grab some dinner and have a nap before going to the White House.”

“Very good. Do please tell the President how very pleased we all are with the re-establishment of our Special Relationship. And I think you can reassure him that the general situation in the Wizarding world is now very much improved, and is only going to get better.”

“You can count on that, Kingsley...but there are still some loose ends. In particular, we still don't know what happened to the official American presence in Britain. It's a safe bet that our representatives – our  _ former _ representatives, that is – are either on the run or, quite possibly, scattered over London in very tiny pieces. But we can't stop looking for them until we know for sure. What's even more embarrassing, in a way, is the fact that we've lost track of at least two hundred and twenty-five thousand Galleons.”

That startled all of us, and our faces showed it. Blackstone nodded grimly. “After you left, Ryan, Harvey Lefferson finally managed to unravel the jinxes and get into Parboil's financial records. We're still digging through them, but just before Kingsley showed up on our doorstep, Harvey told me they had discovered over a million and a half Franklins had been sent out of the country, all consigned to Pal Joey in London.”

I whistled and said, “Wow! That's a lot more...”

“-- than we thought you were going to find at Gringotts.”

“No wonder Dreadneedle was so embarrassed when I found the vault empty.”

“Yes. Of course, not all of it may have gone through Gringott's – the Goblins in New York were still stalling when I left, making noises about the 'sudden and irregular' way the Department of Magic changed hands, but a lot of it undoubtedly did. Moreover, some of that money may have been sent on to Tom Riddle's satraps in other countries, but I've got a hunch that Fangboner, Wright and Joey found it – ah, difficult to part with, once they got their hands on it. And now, I'm wondering if maybe that's what our elusive cowboy is after.”

A light dawned in my brain, but it took a few minutes of explanations before everyone else caught up with our thinking about Walpurgis Holiday.

“Who's this fellow he's descended from, Doc Holiday?” Ron wanted to know. “Was he a famous Wizard back in your wild West?”

“Well, he's famous, mostly among Muggles though,” explained Blackstone. “Even most of our people don't know he was a Wizard. He lived in the middle 19 th Century, and apparently didn't have much to do with the Wizarding community after he got thrown out of school – was never fully trained in magic. He actually worked as a Muggle dentist, which is how he got the nickname 'Doc.' Mostly, though, he's known as a gunfighter – on both sides of the law – and a friend of Wyatt Earp, a well-known Muggle marshal – policeman – back in wild West days.”

“That's really weird,” said Hermione. “My parents are dentists – they're Muggles, of course – and if they were Wizards, they could do so much more, so easily, using magic.”

“Of course,” agreed Blackstone, “and Muggle dentistry was pretty primitive back then.”

“My mother told me they used to just yank out bad teeth without any anesthetic,” said Hermione in a hushed voice, “...had to have people come in and hold the patient down while they did it. Didn't even wash their hands!”

“Gross!” Ron made a face.

Blackstone chuckled. “Well, Doc Holiday had a long career for those days, and died in bed, unlike a lot of people he knew. He must have used some magic, now and again, or he wouldn't have lasted as long as he did, considering how often people tried to kill him. I never heard that he had any children, but records weren't very well kept then, and if Doc had a son who inherited his magic, that line would probably have been kept out of Muggle records entirely. And the dates fit well enough; our friend Walpurgis could be Doc's great-grandson.”

“I suppose it's possible that –  _ Walpurgis _ Holiday? – what  _ were _ his parents thinking? – could have come over here on some innocent business,” observed Hermione, doubtfully.

“You're bending over backwards to be fair, Hermione.” put in Elliot. “If he was chums with this Slimy Parboil, a known Death Eater...”

“And we do know he was thrown out of school, probably for using Dark Magic, and it does seem pretty dodgy that the American Department of Magic hardly had any records about him,” added Ron.

“Right you are,” said Harry. “Seems likely enough that he's up to something we should know about, at the very least.”

“I think this case ought to be a high priority for us, Harry, for our own security as well as a chance to help our American friends.” Kingsley spoke seriously, and everyone nodded. Blackstone looked grateful, and I tried to. “How would you define the problem?”

Harry looked thoughtful. “I think we've got three questions here. One, of course, is what this Holiday chap is doing in Britain. But we mustn't lose sight of the investigation Ryan originally came over to do – we haven't finished that, and it looks like it may have a relationship to the first question. I'd use two more questions: what happened to all that money, and where are the three Wizards who were here...what are their names? – Joey, and...Wright, was it? and...”

“Fangboner,” put in Ron, with a snort. “Bangarulingam Fangboner.”

Kingsley looked at Alistair. “Really?”

“Oh yeah. His mother was a Witch from India, and she named him. I knew the guy. Oily bastard – pardon my French.” Blackstone glanced at Hermione, who giggled.

“It seems to me we probably already found one of them,” I said, “the guy who didn't quite make it out of that office building. Don't know which one he was, though.”

“All three of them may have been there, trapped in that stasis spell, for all we know. If so, they're now just a bunch of smithereens.” Harry sounded bitter.

“Harry, don't start blaming yourself,” said Kingsley. “We've talked about this.”

“And if you start apologizing I'll apologize right back,” I added, “and we'll be here for  _ hours _ .” That got Harry laughing, to everyone's relief.

“I know. You're right. The sticky bit is, of course, that we can't be sure they were there. We can't even be quite certain that the body we found was one of them; it could have been someone else entirely.”

“True,” said Blackstone. “I'm not entirely sure I've got everything straight in my own mind. Let me summarize the major facts as I know them. You folks correct me if I go off course.” He looked around. We all nodded and he settled back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “We know that Wright, Joey, and Ron's favorite, Fangboner, were assigned to the U.K., officially, and all had been here at least two years. Fangboner and Joey had been here four, actually; Wright was the relative newcomer. We know that they kept an office complex over on...”

“Mount Street.” Hermione was quick.

“Thank you. Mount Street, completely separate from the Embassy. We know that the Department has had a vault at Gringott's since 1819, and we know that Palindrome Joey went there and cleaned it out on...April 6 th , if I remember right.”

“You do,” I confirmed. “That's what old Dreadneedle told me. And he also told me that the Ministry – which I guess means Riddle and his Death Eaters, at that time, really (Kingsley was nodding) had taken over the bank, and he was relying on Ministry records they found when the Goblins finally got back in.”

“Interesting. Nearly a month before Tom Riddle died; that was on May 2 nd . But let's continue. We know that the Liason office building was blown up at some point, although it fell into some sort of 'suspended animation' stasis and the explosion didn't finish until later. We know there was at least one person there when it happened.” He cocked his head. “And that, I think, is all we have in the definite fact department. Anyone got any more?”

“We know about Wally Holly being here,” said Ron.

That got a laugh from Blackstone. “Ha! Wally Holly – oh, that's a good one. Call him that to his face, and then duck! Actually, though, we don't know that for sure. Ryan has seen him, we think, but has never met him.”

Harry said, “Let's try matching up those facts with what was happening with us and Riddle. April 6 th , for instance – we had escaped from Malfoy Manor and were still staying with you and Fleur, Bill, at Shell Cottage.”

“That was just about when Teddy Lupin was born,” said Hermione softly.

“Yes,” said Harry with a strained expression, “not long after we buried Dobby. We're the only ones who remember him now, I suppose.” He sounded sad and resigned, almost bitter.

Blackstone caught my eye and I suddenly knew what he wanted me to do. “Harry, that's not true.” I tried to sound convincing. Harry looked almost annoyed, and I hurried on. “Headmistress McGonagall asked me to tell you. The house elves at Hogwarts have started to call their leader – the head elf, spokes-elf, the one they look up to – they've named that office 'the Dobby.' So there'll always be a Dobby at Hogwarts now. And what's more, she said they talk like they expect other groups of house elves, in other places, to start using the term too.”

It was a tableau. Harry looked at me, blinking. His mouth was open and the furrows between his eyebrows had disappeared. Ron's jaw had dropped, too, and his eyes were wide. Hermione clapped her hand to her mouth and shut her eyes tight. Bill, Elliott and Kingsley looked at each other, and Blackstone took them all in.

“That's amazing.” Hermione broke the silence after a moment, and we all looked at her. “Don't you see? Dobby was a free elf. You wrote that on his gravestone, Harry. But after he was freed, he had trouble getting along with the Hogwarts elves, remember? They couldn't understand his not wanting to have a master. Remember Winky? Went all to pieces when she lost her position? The other elves said Dobby wasn't properly ashamed of losing his, and they kept him at a distance, but now...but now...” She trailed off, and Blackstone spoke up.

“Now, it seems, they have realized that being a free elf isn't such a bad thing after all, and decided to honor an elf they once regarded with suspicion and distrust as a symbol of leadership. There's something very British about that, it seems to me.” Ron still looked surprised; Hermione's eyes were wet; Harry was shaking his head gently from side to side, with a smile; he looked at me and gave a little nod. I returned a wink. “But this isn't getting the cows milked!” Kingsley chuckled as Blackstone brought us back on track. “I'd really like to have a plan of action on Harry's three questions before I have to leave. Just how difficult is it likely to be to find an American cowboy Wizard somewhere in the British Wizarding world?”

“Might not be too easy, actually, if he really doesn't want to be found,” offered Elliott. We're a smaller community than yours, but there's still quite a lot of us.”

“Too right,” agreed Bill. “Especially if he's been here before, made some contacts, knows some people who don't much like the Ministry. Always have had some of those.”

“Yes,” put in Kingsley, “and you three managed to stay hidden for quite a long time with Riddle and all his Death Eaters ransacking Britain for you.”

“Mostly thanks to Hermione,” said Ron. “She was prepared for anything.”

Hermione blushed a little. “Well, we all worked together.” Ron gave her a glance that looked very grateful, and she shook her head. There was something being left unsaid, I thought, but then decided to skip it. Whatever it was didn't matter now.

“Assuming it really is Holiday, he certainly saw me at the airport,” I said. “But if it was him that I saw in Diagon Alley, he may or may not have noticed me. If he did, then he knows I'm a Wizard, but how could he know I'm connected with the Department?”

“Mmmmm...good point, but if he's over here searching for the money, he'll be wary, and suspicious of any other American Wizards, I should think,” Kingsley mused.

“You know, when I was a boy, I did some hunting with my father, and read a lot about it.” We all looked at Blackstone, who went into his lecture mode. “A hunter can search for game, and maybe find it – or in some places, they have servants called 'beaters' that push through the bush, making a lot of noise, and driving game toward the hunters. Finding old Tex by combing through the community seems like a lot of work, and if Riddle's Death Beaters didn't manage to flush you three that doesn't sound like a good method either, even if we had lots of help. But there's a third method: put out some bait, and wait for the game to come to you. People hunting tigers in India used to tie a goat to a tree and wait until the tiger came along.”

Hermione was horrified. “That's terrible! The poor goat wouldn't stand a chance!”

Blackstone grimaced. “Well, they might be able to shoot the tiger before he got to the goat. The point is, it worked. Maybe we can do something along those lines.”

“Get him looking for us? I like that,” said Elliott. “But what's the bait?”

“Easy,” said Bill at once, “the money. Make him think we've got it, or at least know where it is.”

“And I think I know how we can do that,” put in Kingsley. “Even the timing would be right. Alistair, before you leave, I was going to suggest that we give the Daily Prophet a statement, or perhaps an interview. Suppose we include some mention of the former American Liaison Committee, and their resources.”

“Yes. Of course I'm leaving, but we could say that Ryan here has been charged with recovering those...resources. If Holiday sees a picture of Ryan he would certainly recognize him, and I think he'd be strongly tempted to find out what Ryan is doing.”

“Now wait a minute,” objected Harry, “I don't much like the idea of using a friend as live bait!”

“I'm not terribly excited about it myself,” I admitted, “but it's the best idea we've come up with. Besides, I'm not exactly a poor defenseless goat, and I expect I'd be pretty well covered by some high-powered British Wizards ready to ride to my rescue.”

There was a good deal of discussion but in the end we made the decision to give it a try. The turning point in the argument came when Ron said frankly that he thought I was “bonkers” to try it, and I agreed – and then pointed out that the three of them had been equally “bonkers” to try robbing Gringott's, or break into the Chamber of Secrets, or when they went after the Philosopher's Stone as eleven-year-old students. Even Hermione had no answer to that.

The next morning, the Daily Prophet splashed the article on the front page, with a picture of Alistair and Kingsley shaking hands, and another picture of me shaking hands with Harry.

> **AMERICAN WIZARDS IN BRITAIN**
> 
> **Death Eaters Routed in US Capital**
> 
> _**Voldemort's Influence Across the Atlantic** _
> 
> Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt today announced that official relations with the American Wizarding community have been re-established “on a firm and entirely co-operative basis” during a visit by the new United States Secretary of Magic, Admiral Alistair Blackstone (Ret.), USN, USWMC.
> 
> In a surprisingly candid statement, Secretary Blackstone revealed the shocking news that the evil influence of the late and unlamented Tom Riddle, who called himself Lord Voldemort, had spread to the United States over a period of years, and eventually resulted in the subversion and effective takeover of the American equivalent of our Ministry of Magic, the U.S. Department of Magic. The death of Voldemort at the recent Battle of Hogwarts was the signal for a battle in the American capital, Washington D.C., led by Blackstone and a company of United States Wizarding Marines, which captured or killed a group of American Wizards, including then-Secretary of Magic Sylvester Parboil, who were found to have the Dark Mark on their arms.

The article went on to tell the outlines of the American story, and included a paragraph in which the Minister and the Secretary admitted that they had each felt embarrassed by the situation – the Americans because they hadn't helped fight Voldemort, and the Brits because the problem came from Britain in the first place. Blackstone was quoted praising the courage of those who fought and defeated Voldemort, and they both were emphatic about a new era of friendship.

Underneath this article was another, which introduced me as the Permanent Special Liaison Officer to the United Kingdom for Magical Law Enforcement Cooperation, and included a statement from Harry about how he was looking forward to working closely with me. Then there was my statement about our former Liaison Officers, who were to be arrested when found, and my mission to recover the resources (including “a substantial amount of money”) they had been misusing. I was “confident” that all that would be “accomplished promptly,” and allowed as how we were “vigourously pursuing a number of excellent leads.” The official statements were carefully written beforehand, approved by Kingsley and Alistair, and handed out as Press Releases; when the reporters (who did not include Rita Skeeter) questioned us, we responded with glittering generalities of the Mutual Admiration Society sort. There was another picture, just of me, trying to look intrepid and somehow older than I was. It was my first Press Conference, and frankly I didn't like it all that much.

Alistair then shook hands all around, grasped his TAPKey (a rather scratched-up little record with a big hole in the middle, a “single”called “Downtown” sung by someone named Petula Clark) and was gone.

I was now a public figure, and I was on my own.

*****************


	24. Hollow Hopes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackstone's scheme (using Ryan as live bait to find the missing Americans) is interrupted when something very strange turns up in Harry's birthplace.

My Dad likes to quote a line from a Scottish poet. When I was a little kid, I thought it meant something about jumping off a sinking ship at the back end, but when I looked it up in school I found “...the best-laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley,” and it means “things don't always work out the way you expect.” That's what happened to us.

We did give Blackstone's idea a good solid try. I “trailed my coat,” as Elliott put it (I thought of it more like imitating a minnow, swimming around with a hopeful expression and a fishhook) for day after day. I went out and about in both Muggle and Wizarding areas, trying to be conspicuously inconspicuous...that is, pretending to investigate those “excellent leads,” and look like I was trying not to make waves, but really making sure I was easy to spot if anyone (especially anyone from Texas) happened to be looking for me. When in the Muggle areas I had no problem dressing like a college student again, but I did have to put in a little extra prep time anyhow, because there were never less than three Wizards keeping me in sight at any given moment. At one time or another (they rotated) my shadows included Harry, Elliott, Abner, Bill, Ron, Hermione, Neville, Arthur, Orderic Pease, Jimmy Weston-Boyce, and even Jamie and Kingsley a time or two. Except for Harry and Hermione, I found it wise to check their clothing before we started out, in case they'd included something inappropriate, like a tailcoat or long underwear.

In the Muggle world, I covered Piccadilly Circus (which is just a big traffic circle, not an entertainment) and the Horse Guards Parade, where I didn't see either a horse or a guard. Hyde Park Corner had a promising collection of oddballs, but after listening for a few minutes to an older guy with a mop of white hair ranting about how the Aztecs invented the vacation and the Tory party was using it to enslave the working class, I moved on, shaking my head, and spotted Hermione laughing her head off. I took the public tours of Parliament, St. Paul's Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, and Buckingham Palace – which were really quite fascinating, and full of the most astonishing ancient things and great beauty.

Of course I covered Wizarding London as well, spending a lot of time browsing in Diagon Alley, and not neglecting Knockturn Alley, the Leaky Cauldron, and all the other known magical locations. I was not molested or approached, and nobody saw anybody that looked like a tall Texan wizard. Then we put the expeditions on hold and started looking for concealed magical locations, because we were able to use an upgraded version of the Sniffer.

The new American Liaison team had arrived and set up shop, temporarily, in the Ministry itself, until they could either charm, disillusion and obliviate their way back into the massive U.S. Embassy on Grosvernor Street, or find and prepare proper quarters somewhere else. John Ramirez was a stocky, grey, balding Wizard with a ready smile, who would be our new General Liaison Officer; Paul Dadura was his Deputy, tall and spare, with cornrowed hair and skin somewhat darker than Kingsley's; and George Wong, the Comptroller, was young, cheerful, athletic, and very quick on the uptake. I liked them at once, and so did their British counterparts, but they got busy with their assignments and our paths didn't cross very often. Along with them, however, came Kenji Sakai and Alan Dabrowski from the Research team, and I learned another British expression: “boffin.”

A boffin is a scientist or engineer who does technical work, one of the “backroom boys” who get things done pretty much anonymously or as a member of a group. The term is a positive one, and while people might not understand what a boffin is actually doing, they are respected. Our American equivalents, like “egghead” or “geek,” tend to mean someone who's socially inept, or not quite normal, but a boffin is a perfectly normal sort who works at important and useful things which just happen to be secret, or at least over the heads of most people. Kenji and Al went right to work, setting up computers for the Ministry's Department heads, and scheduling training courses. One of the first things they did was give my machine an overhaul (“just new tires and an oil change,” joked Al) and install a package of updates to its various spells.

The Sniffer could now show a three-D picture of a structure, focus on different sections, distinguish and identify many more magical spells and objects, and best of all, range out as far as a thousand miles. Details weren't all that sharp beyond about 500 or so, but they were tinkering with a focusing charm that would give excellent results within a small area even at maximum range. In fact, the Sniffer was getting so good that Blackstone had begun worrying about privacy issues, and the new edition had built-in limits. Black magic spells or objects would show up clearly as always, in angry colors and full detail, but ordinary magic or magical objects would simply show green. Magical creatures would be identified, and Wizards and Witches would be labeled as such, but that was all. There was a set of spells which could defeat these restrictions and parse anything detected, but those spells had to be performed by wands officially authorized to do so. There was a sort of intermediate zone – creatures, objects or spells which could not be definitely identified as harmless – and our boffins were still working on that; they showed up as shades of yellow. The boffins gave Kingsley Shacklebolt's wand a full authorization, and Kingsley could pass that to other wands entirely or in part, but this worked only within areas where his Ministerial authority ruled, and if he should leave office, or die, this power would disappear.

Kingsley decided, after we all got a morning's intense instruction and had a bit of practice, to fully authorize Harry's wand, and mine. Everyone understood that these arrangements were still in the development stage, and were liable to be modified on the basis of experience as time went on. Still, it was a terrific improvement over the original, and Harry and I could hardly wait to get going with it.

We combed London again, but didn't find much that we hadn't already checked out. Then we started on the rest of the country. We had been counting on having to send me (and my bodyguard teams) to all the various locations, and the prospect of doing it all from one place, or at least cutting down the number of personal visits, was very welcome. Hogsmeade, of course, is the only all-Wizarding town in Britain, and we went over that first with the magical equivalent of a fine-tooth comb. We turned up a few suspicious objects, but nothing that indicated our quarry might be there.

“You know, Harry,” I said as we finished this survey, “I still ought to go there in person. It's one place we know Holiday knows about, and enough odd characters pass through there that he might well take a chance on it.”

“Yeah, you're right,” Harry agreed, scratching his head. “We'll send you everywhere, if needs be, but I'm still hoping this lovely little gadget will at least narrow the field somewhat.”

“You and me both.”

And, in the end, it did. We slogged through a list of places in Britain, including Ireland, Scotland and Wales, where Wizarding folk lived quietly alongside Muggles. Puddlemere, Tinworth, Upper Flagley, Mould-On-The-Wold (boy, is that a name!), Falmouth, Chudleigh – well,there's quite a few of them. Nothing turned up except an occasional odd something that caused Harry to make a note for future investigation. Malfoy Manor had quite a few “dodgy” readings, and we marked it down for a personal visit, but both of us thought it unlikely that our traveling Texan would stay in a place so obviously connected with Tom Riddle. We cleared Ottery St. Catchpole toward the end – we'd already gone through it from the Burrow, after all – and finally we turned the Sniffer on another place we felt sure old W.I.T.C. Holiday would be avoiding – Godric's Hollow, Harry's birthplace.

Maybe you always find things in the last place you look because you stop looking when you find them. When we focused on Godric's Hollow, Harry had the Sniffer going at full authorization; he wanted to see everything we could, in his ancestral home, and I didn't blame him. We easily spotted the various Wizarding residences, including the Potters' old house which had been left unrepaired as a monument, after Harry's parents died and Tom Riddles killing curse backfired and blew the roof off, and Bathilda Bagshot's house where Riddle's snake, Nagini, had almost caught Harry and Hermione last Christmas. The war-memorial in the middle of town glowed green, because to Wizarding folk it appeared as a sculpture of Harry's parents and their baby boy. After a few minutes, though, we both blinked a couple of times, looked at each other, looked back at the display, and spoke in unison:

“What...is THAT?”

It was a place, or a thing, that looked to be maybe fifteen or twenty feet on a side, roughly square or rectangular, under the town church. It glowed in a combination of colors I'd never seen before, and which kept shifting. There was green, and yellow, and orange, and it seemed like there were blotches of red trying to break through, and even a thin black border that blinked in and out so quickly it was hard to be sure it was really there.

The first thing we did was call in Al and Kenji. They were surprised, then fascinated. They got out their wands, pointed them at the screen and muttered some things I didn't try to catch; the picture shifted and the colors changed somewhat, but then went right back to the way they were originally.

“So what is it, then?”

“It's what we call a damfino, Harry,” said Al slowly.

“Damfino?”

“Me neither,” said Kenji. Harry barked a laugh, and Kenji went on, “but it reminds me of things we've seen underneath Gringott's. Kind of.”

I haven't mentioned checking out Gringott's, and I'd better back up and include that. The vaults underneath the Wizarding Bank in London are much larger, much deeper, and much more irregular than the ones in New York – logical, because they're much, much older. With restrictions on, the Sniffer just showed them as green; but some vaults looked odd and a few black or red bits did show up here and there, but without the usual details, probably thanks to the enormously complex and powerful security spells that pervaded the whole area.

Before Admiral Blackstone left, we'd discussed the idea that Pal Joey had simply removed the money from the official vault and put it into another vault under Gringott's, but agreed this seemed unlikely, because they were expecting Riddle to take over completely and either demand the money himself, or give them the opportunity to use it, and they'd want it easily accessible. To make sure, though, the Minister for Magic and the Secretary of Magic went down to the bank in person, together, and demanded answers. This double-barreled approach (based on some advice from Bill) had impressed even the Goblins, and when they returned, both expressed themselves as quite satisfied that wherever it was now, the money wasn't at Gringott's. So we made no attempts to penetrate further into Goblin territory with the Sniffer.

But now we'd found something the program-spell couldn't parse, and both Kenji and Al thought it was probably guarded by deep, deep layers of security spells, hexes, jinxes and who-knows-what-all, some of which could well border on Black Magic, or maybe even cross that border. And they guessed that it was probably old, very old, so old that some of the spells might well be completely forgotten today.

“Ryan,” said Harry slowly, “I think we ought to shift our priorities. Finding old Wally Holly, as Ron called him, can wait a bit I reckon. I'd really like to know what this is all about, before we do anything else.”

“I'm right with you, Harry. Actually, I've been hoping to slip over there and see Godric's Hollow at some point, just personally, but now it looks like I'm going to get a guided tour.”

“Yes. Happy to oblige. But I think we ought to make a plan – give it some careful thought – before we go barging in.”

“You're preaching to the choir.”

It took most of the next day to settle the plans. Aside from keeping up with ordinary business, we both felt the need to seek input from everyone who had been involved with our last attempt at investigating a magical place. Naturally, they all had opinions to offer. And Kingsley Shacklebolt wanted to have a say as well, once he heard about what we were doing. If we had written it down, the plan we finally evolved would have looked something like this:

> OBJECTIVE: To discover the nature and contents (if any) of a room or vault concealed underneath the village church in Godric's Hollow, without alarming or harming anything or anyone who lives there – especially the Muggles.
> 
> PERSONNEL: Harry Potter, Ryan Jenkins, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Abner Proudfoot, Bill Weasley, Kenji Sakai, Orderic Pease and one other Obliviator, two members of the Invisibility Task Force. All will dress in dark clothing.
> 
> DATE AND TIME: Tuesday, June 9, 1998, 12:30 p.m., weather permitting. Rain, or wet ground from recent rain, would mean postponement because footprints would be too visible. Clouds or fog could prevent backup teams from observing. Tuesday nights the Vicar of the Church of St. Clementine, the Rev. Dr. Swain (a Muggle) visits friends in a neighboring village for an evening of bridge, usually leaving by 9:30 and not returning until the next morning, so the church would be empty, there being no caretaker (called a “verger” for some reason) and the Rev. having no wife.
> 
> APPROACH: Everyone Apparates to a deserted nearby moor with brooms. Ryan hikes into the village in Muggle (student tourist) guise, with backpack. Harry accompanies him, wearing the invisibility cloak. The others wait at altitude, being careful not to be seen.
> 
> PHASE 1: Ryan and Harry go to the church. Ryan plays tourist while Harry unlocks a door. They enter and scout the place.
> 
> PHASE 2: Ryan sets up his computer and makes the most detailed scan of the mysterious vault possible. They attempt to find an entrance. Bill and Kenji may be called in to help with the scan, or to break spells.
> 
> PHASE 3: If they can safely enter the mysterious space, it will be explored and the contents (if any) noted.
> 
> WITHDRAWAL: All are to withdraw to the rendezvous on the moor by midnight, 12:30 at the latest, and Apparate back to London. The church is to be left locked and appear undisturbed.

Eleven people seemed like overkill for this job, and Ron and Hermione weren't actually needed, but they wanted to go so badly Harry couldn't disappoint them. He got them to agree to stay with the backup team, in the air, unseen, by promising to let them come down and see for themselves, if we managed to get in safely. At least they could count on finding out what happened (or didn't happen) right away. Kingsley made only one suggestion: he wanted two Obliviators and two members of the ITF; we had thought one of each was plenty, seeing as how it was such a small village. But he pointed out that just because it is such a small village, everyone tends to look out for everyone: if someone thought the church was being broken into, they were likely to raise a general alarm, whether it was a Muggle or a Wizard.

I would have to try and use my scanner without showing light through the church windows, but we felt sure there would be someplace with window-curtains, maybe an office or even a bathroom, that would serve. We hoped that would show some sort of entrance to the vault. If it didn't, and we couldn't find one by midnight, we would withdraw and think up another scheme. If we needed backup, we could send up sparks with our wands, send a Patronus, or even shout.

Elliott Witherspoon was going to stay behind and mind things at the Ministry, because to everyone's surprise, Abner Proudfoot had visited Godric's Hollow several times. Turns out a schoolmate of his lived there. Abner was the one who knew about the Reverend Swain's love of bridge, and his weekly evenings making up a fourth with a Muggle couple and their widowed aunt. If we encountered any of the Wizarding residents, Abner, who was either known or known of in the village, would keep them occupied until the Obliviators could do their stuff. If we encountered any Muggles, I would take the lead in distracting them for the same reason.

It sure seemed like a good plan.

Fortunately, the night was clear and calm, and we all arrived safely on the moor. Abner brought us, one by one, by side-along Apparition, to a place he knew. There were no trees, but a sort of pile of boulders on flat, undulating ground. For some reason, we all shook hands with each other. It just seemed like the thing to do. Mounting brooms, we separated: the others went up higher, dividing into two groups, as planned. Harry and I flew low, coming down to a paved road where we shrunk and stowed our brooms and Harry put on his cloak.

We could smell flowers as Harry and I walked into town. I could see rhododendrons and lots of others; at one point I thought I caught the scent of lily-of-the-valley. My Mom loves those and we have lots of them at home. Then I remembered that Harry's Mom was named Lily, and felt sad, wondering if she'd planted some too. But I didn't say anything. Harry and I had agreed to keep talking to a minimum, in case someone saw me talking to myself or heard a voice coming out of nowhere. I was following Harry, who was completely invisible under his cloak. How do you follow someone who's invisible? In front – by touch.

There were no cars. Abner had told us there was a law against parking in the village during the summer months, and it was nowhere near anything anyone would call a main road. The street was narrow; Harry had called it a “lane.” On both sides were cottages, mostly with front porches, usually covered in flowering vines like clematis and wisteria. That was very much like the older houses in the Midwest that I remembered so well, but these houses were different. Smaller. Older. Although there had been a larger one, the first one we came to, which looked really old (it reminded me of buildings like Shakespeare's Globe Theatre in Elizabethan times) but was almost completely covered in vines. The right side of the roof was blown out, it was dark, the yard was overgrown and the front gate was all rusted.

“Touch the gate,” came Harry's whisper. I put my hand on the top, and suddenly a wooden sign rose up out of the ground. It had glowing gold letters on it that read:

_On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981,_

_Lily and James Potter lost their lives._

_Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard_

_ever to have survived the Killing Curse._

_This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left_

_in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters_

_and as a reminder of the violence_

_that tore apart their family._

There was graffiti all over the sign, all around, but everyone had been careful not to obscure the words. Some of them said things like “good luck, Harry” or “we're all behind you,” but the most recent, written in large golden letters on top of others, just said “Thank You, Harry!” “Wow,” I breathed. Hearing about it was one thing, actually standing there looking at it was something else. After a bit, Harry squeezed my arm and we headed on in.

The lane curved to the left, and we saw street lights ahead, in what turned out to be the town square...also strangely like a Midwestern town, (or vice versa, I suddenly realized) but also smaller, and older. Just a few shops and a post office – all closed – and a pub, which was apparently closing. Harry's touch stopped us in the shadows under a tree, and as we watched, the light inside went out, and a man and a woman came out the front door. She watched as he locked the door, and they walked off together. For a moment I thought they were going to come right by us, but they turned and disappeared up an alley between the post office and one of the shops.

The far side of the square was taken up by a small church, blocky and built of stone, with a square tower instead of a steeple, and a large fenced area I could see was the graveyard. In the middle of the square was a tall but rather wide obelisk, much like other ones I had seen – “cenotaphs” they're called, and they were generally built to honor the local dead from World War I, whose names were engraved in the stone. Most of them had more names under the legend “World War II.” Remembering that I was supposed to be a tourist hiking through, I went up to the cenotaph – and as I got close, it changed. I knew about this, but it was still surprising and uncanny to see. It transformed into a sculpture of a man and a woman holding a baby. I stopped, and felt Harry brush into the pack on my back. The man in the statue was wearing glasses and looked a lot like Harry; the woman had long hair and was very pretty. Again, after a moment I felt Harry touch my arm, and we moved off.

I knew where I was going – before we started out, Hermione had told me, in detail, about their visit last Christmas. The graveyard was surrounded by a cast-iron fence, and off to the side was what she called a “kissing gate.” You pushed it open, stepped into a little enclosure, and had to close the gate again before you could leave the enclosure to the inside. Hermione had said it was a romantic invention: if a boy could trap a girl in the little enclosure, he could ask for a kiss before letting her pass through. Abner had overheard, and snorted. “Naow,” he said. “Keeps the cows out o' the graveyard, is all.”

We slipped in through the gate, and Harry steered me by touch – not to the church, but into the graveyard. I had time to consider how eerie it was to be walking through a graveyard, being touched on the elbow by a totally invisible hand. When I was a little kid, my friends and I were scared of ghosts and gave graveyards a wide berth, even in daylight; when I got older my parents taught me the adult Muggle attitude: there are no such things as ghosts, it's all just silly primitive superstition, and I pretty much ignored graveyards. Then, of course, I went to Wizard school and learned better, when I met a couple of ghosts. They're real, all right, but you don't have to be afraid – there just isn't much they can do to you except that chilled-all-through thing.

We stopped at a very old gravestone, one of those nearest to the church (which made sense). The light from the street lamps reflected off the church, and I could almost make out the engraving, but not quite: the stone was badly weathered and had blotches of lichen or moss. Nevertheless, I knew what it said: “Ignotus” and could see part of the sign of the Deathly Hallows carved beneath the name. That's a triangle, enclosing a circle, with a vertical line up the middle. The vertical line represents the Elder Wand (which was back at Hogwarts), the circle represents the Resurrection Stone (lost somewhere in the Forbidden Forest) and the triangle represents the Invisibility Cloak, which was right beside me. This was the grave of Ignotus Peverell, Harry's ancestor, who had passed the Cloak down to his descendants. Suddenly I felt a vibration beneath my feet. It was faint, but unmistakable, much like what you might expect from a large truck, passing by in the street. I heard a sharp intake of breath and knew that Harry felt it too. We stepped back and turned around to look, but there was no truck, and it stopped.

Harry then steered me away from the church, farther into the graveyard, until we reached a double headstone. This was much newer, made of a white stone (marble, I thought) and the neat engraving was easy to read in the starlight. James Potter and Lily Potter. Harry's parents. I looked at the dates, and it hit me pretty hard when I realized they had both died at the age of 21. I heard a soft rustle, and a small bouquet of flowers appeared on the ground in front of the stone. I didn't recognize them, but they were small, and looked white or cream-colored. They were pretty.

A soft tug on my elbow turned us around, and we made our way through the headstones to the church itself. There was a side door, and when I stopped in front of it I felt Harry brush past me. I was supposed to be blocking the view of anyone who happened to see us, but there wasn't anyone, as far as I could see or hear. I heard him say “ _ alohomora _ ” quietly, followed by a muffled clank and clunk, and the door swung inward with a groan of hinges that sounded like a fire alarm in the silence. We held our breaths, listening for any response to the noise, and then stepped quickly inside. It took several minutes to swing the door closed, very slowly, to keep the noise from those damn hinges at a minimum, but of course we couldn't leave it standing open.

The windows in the church were deep-set in the stone, and didn't let in much light from outside, but it was bright enough to move around without bumping into things, and I headed for the altar area. There might be a small robing room, or a choir room, or something like that, which would have no windows. I took two steps up to the level of the altar table, looking around on both sides, and that's when it happened. The sanctuary suddenly echoed to a sharp “ _ crack! _ ” from the back of the room. The echo effect changed the sound so that I didn't immediately recognize it for what it was: someone Apparating into the church. A bright something whipped past me, and the space was suddenly illuminated for a moment as if someone had taken a picture with a flash camera. 

Then all the lights went out, because I did.

When I came to, I didn't know how much later, I was looking up at the carved ceiling of the church. I couldn't move my arms or legs, they seemed to be stuck to whatever I was laying on. But I could turn my head; to my right rose up a large mass that turned out to be the altar, and I realized I was laying on the floor behind it. Looking to the left, I saw the back wall of the sanctuary, with a door partly covered by a curtain, until my view was blocked by something tall and black moving into my view. A triangle poked out of the bottom of the black cloth, the pointed toe of a boot, and I realized what color it would show in a better light. I looked upwards, and saw the cowl of the Wizard's robes thrown back, revealing a rugged, lean, square-jawed face that did not surprise me in the least.

“Well, now, fancy meetin' you here, son,” he said in a voice that would have been right at home in El Paso or Fort Worth. “I thought you was just blowin' smoke in that newspaper article, but it looks like you did have some leads, after all.”

******************


	25. High Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who's the fastest wand east of the Pecos? A rescue, a baffling problem, and a surprising discovery.

I didn't say anything, and after a moment Holiday went on in a soft, conversational drawl, “You're gonna have to talk to me, son. Ain't no way around it. We can do it quiet, and simple-like, right here and now. Or I can stun ya again, take you out to a place I know, and go to work on ya real good. You'll talk then, I'll guarantee ya that. Hell, you'll scream. But it won't do ya any good. Not out there.” He kept his wand pointed at me, and poked me with the toe of his boot. “So what's it gonna be?”

My brain had revved up into overdrive as he talked. Did he think I was here alone?  _ Where was Harry?  _ If he didn't know about Harry, why hadn't Harry clobbered him with any of a dozen spells I could think of? The thing is, Holiday's manner was not in the least hurried or nervous. He wasn't keeping an eye on anything but me. He didn't talk or act like a man expecting to be interrupted any moment. But maybe that strong, man-of-few-words cowboy image was real...at least to him...and I was reading too much into it. Had he zapped Harry, and thought that was my only companion? That would be stupid of him, don't count on that. Had Harry gone to bring help? That wasn't like Harry, but maybe... Still, if Wally Holly (the name leaped to mind and I immediately thought  _ Whatever you do, don't say that! _ ) really did think I was alone, I couldn't ask, or even hint, about a companion without putting him on his guard.  _ Where was Harry? _ I was running through this cycle in my mind when it was broken by a pointed boot toe, this time crashing painfully hard into my ribs. 

“Ahh! Okay, okay, we'll talk!” The agony was subsiding, but it had cleared the rest of the cobwebs out of my head and crystallized the obvious: regardless of what was happening, my best bet at this point was to play for time. “What do you want to know?”

“Mainly, I want to know how to git the money. You and I are huntin' the same game, ain't we?”

“The...money from the vault at Gringott's, yeah.”

“ _ All _ the money. The Goblins must-a told ya; they changed a lot o' Franklins inta gold Galleons, over the years, a whole lot more than they kept in that vault.”

“Yeah, I know.”  _ Tell the truth as much as possible _ , I was thinking. I didn't know how much he knew. “Blackstone said it was over a million and a half, in Franklins.”

“Huh. A lot he knows.” Holiday sounded derisive. “It's more'n that. A lot more.”

“It could have blown up with that building on Mount Street.”

“No. Oh, no. I couldn't find the place when I went there. It was hexed. Couldn't get in. I guess you an' the Brits did, and now mebbe I'm glad I didn't. But the money's in gold. That much gold, they would-a found some of it, even after th' buildin' blew up, an' they didn't. If they had, you wouldn't be here, would you? Not in the middle of the night, anyhow. No, it warn't there. I  _ know _ it warn't. Now how'd you know to come to the Holler? Answer me that.” 

“I didn't. Not for sure. I mean, I didn't know for sure that the money is here, but I thought it might be.”  _ Not a word about the computer and the Sniffer. Not a word – unless he brings it up. _

“How come?”

“I made a list of possible places.” I was thinking fast, but it felt like I was thinking on ice skates. “I was figuring the most likely ones were magical places, and especially ones where Voldemort had been, because they were obviously accumulating all that money for him. Godric's Hollow was way up near the top of that list. He'd been here twice, did you know that? Once in 1981 and again last Christmas.”

“Oh, I knew about that, all right. Ran into Pal Joey when I got here; he was usin' an old safe house we'd set up, way back when, thinkin' Bangfang was the only one knew about it. Joey told me a lot o' stuff, after I encouraged him a bit. That's how I knew him and Ol' Bangfang stashed it away. They double-crossed me, puttin' that F'delius Charm on the office, and tried to freeze me out – hell, they tried to freeze ol'  _ Voldemort _ out. You didn't figger on that, did ya?”

“No! You mean Fangboner tried to steal it all for  _ himself _ ? From  _ Voldemort _ ? That was  _ stupid _ .” He was a lot more talkative now. I didn't know why but I was glad of it.

“Bangfang warn't near as smart as he thought he was, even as a kid. We was in school together – he always wanted to be the one comin' out on top, in the end. But this time he didn't. Not this time. He and Joey worked it together, but Joey done for 'im and went to ground.”

“Then he was stupid too. Voldemort would have found him. Voldemort was  _ not _ stupid, and he was incredibly powerful.”

“That he was. Wouldn't-a tried it, myself. But Joey figured on tellin' Voldemort that he'd stopped Fangboner. 'I saved your money for you, and here it is, mister big shot Dark Lord.' Part of it, anyhow; don't know how much Joey figured on holdin' out for himself. They prob'ly did have considerable that nobody else knew about.” He lifted his wand and his eyes narrowed into slits. “That money's  _ mine _ , son. Bangfang  _ owed _ me, big time, and I'm gonna collect, sure as Hell's a man-trap. 'Cause Voldemort's gone, his Death Eaters are on the run, and they ain't lookin' for me, 'cause I ain't one of 'em. That Potter kid put Voldemort down, nobody saw  _ that _ comin', an' ol Joey was just layin' low 'til the dust settled when I come along and found 'im settin' with his back to a door he didn't know about.” He pointed his wand straight at me. “But you ain't bein' straight with me, son. Pal Joey told me the money was here in the Holler, in a vault, but that's all he said before he...passed away. Sudden, like. Real sad. Now mebbe you did just come to check the place out, but I seen you comin' into town. You stopped at the old Potter place; only Wizards do that. But you didn't go in. Then you walked straight past me, I was in the old Bagshot house. You didn't even stop there, and those are the two places Voldemort went when he come here. There ain't nothin' in either of 'em. I know that. But so do you, because you just passed 'em by an' headed straight for the church. Now how'd you know to come here?”

I was about to say something about wanting to put flowers on Harry's parents' grave, but it sounded lame even to me. The ice under my mental skates was getting pretty thin when we were interrupted by the sound of the big church doors being unlocked, revealing a woman's voice saying (apparently to herself) “Now let's see...it must have rolled under the pew. I hope the Vicar won't mind that I came...Oh! Who are  _ you _ ?” 

Holiday's wand left me and pointed down the aisle. There was a scream and a flash and a door closed, and the Texan vaulted over the altar. I heard him run down the aisle and go out the door, and then suddenly Ron and Abner were there. Abner pointed his wand at me and I could move again. My arms and legs weren't coordinating too well, and when they got me upright I was dizzy for a moment, but it passed quickly. On the altar were my wand and the things from my pockets, including my computer and keyboard (both still shrunk down), and even my broom, also pocket-sized. I grabbed my wand and my broom, and Abner scooped up the rest as Ron hustled (helped) me to the side door.

Outside, the moon had risen – it was full that night – and there was plenty of light. We shook hands all around, and I said “Thanks! That was the best imitation of the Seventh Cavalry I've ever seen in my life.”

“The  _ what _ ?” 

“Tell you later. Where is everybody?”

“Hermione's probably five hundred feet up, now. She parked her broom right outside the church door,” said Abner with a tight smile.

“I thought I recognized her voice!”

“We had to get Holiday away from you,” explained Ron, “and we reckoned that if he'd been confronted by a Wizard he could have just scragged you before fighting or running. Probably would have, couldn't risk it. But a Muggle coming in, see, he'd leave you be and go chase 'em down.”

I was busy stowing things back in my pockets. Abner handed me the keyboard and added, “Holiday stunned Harry too, but he didn't know it, because Harry woke up between a couple of pews with the cloak still over him. He made it to the side door and got it open just enough to slip out – said it took him forever – and he called us down. Orderic and his crew are busy keeping the townsfolk quiet.”

“Where's Harry?”

“He and Bill and Kenji were in the square, waiting for Holiday to come out.”

“You alright on a broom, now, mate?” Ron asked.

“Yeah, I think so. I'm good.” I wasn't anywhere near that confident, but neither was I going to sit around listening to the little birdies and miss out on the party.

“Then let's go up and see what's happened.”

“Wands out!” said Abner, “and don't bunch up. Let's be three separate targets when we come over the roof-line.” That's just what we did, but it was all over.

Walpurgis Holiday was stretched out on his face, about halfway from the church to the cenotaph. Harry – fully visible, with the full moon behind him just over the tops of the houses – was standing a few feet out from the cenotaph; he was facing Holiday and Holiday was lying with his head pointing right toward him. Bill and Kenji were emerging from the shadows on the opposite sides, and Hermione zoomed down for a landing.

I will always regret not having seen the Wand-fight at the U.K. Corral, but here's the way Bill described it, a little later: “It was Harry's plan, and it was brilliant. When he made it outside after he woke up, he sent up red sparks and of course we all came down immediately. He told us what had happened, and said at once that your rescue was first priority, catching Holiday came second. We needed to lure Holiday away from you, and having a Muggle walk in on them was already in his mind. Only he wanted to do that part himself, and it took Hermione a little time – most of a minute, I should say – to convince him that she should do it. She pointed out that Holiday was quite likely to recognize Harry, but when Harry then wanted Ron to do it, she said 'Harry, will you think a minute? This Holiday fellow is a  _ Texan _ – one of those big macho types, practically drowning in test...' —testorine? I didn't quite catch the word she used.”

“Testosterone,” I said with a laugh. “It's a Muggle medicine term – the body chemical associated with masculinity.”  
“Oh. Well, Harry understood, and took her point – which was that Holiday was much more likely to try and chase down a woman, because a fellow like him tends to think of women as helpless little creatures; if a man interrupted, he'd be more worried and might do anything. So she played the little scene...”

“Brilliantly!” I interrupted, and Bill grinned, nodded, and continued,

“...and since she was ready for it, was able to dodge the stunning spell Holiday shot at her easily enough. She ducked out, closed the door, grabbed her broom and headed upwards.

“Now something else Harry told us was that we absolutely needed Holiday alive. We had to catch him if we could, but Harry laid down that we would do better to let him escape than take any risk of his dying, whether accidentally or in self-defense. He is, after all, our only link to your missing people, Ryan; if he got away we might find him again, but if he got killed whatever he knows would die with him. And that was a problem, because as soon as he realized he was confronted by a group, especially a group of Wizards, he could simply Disapparate to anywhere.”

“And probably would,” I agreed. “He Apparated into the church.”

“Exactly. So Harry had a notion of how to distract him from that possibility by making him mad, and gave us our marching orders. He put Kenji and me on either side of the square, between buildings, lying prone with wands out, and then he put on his Cloak while walking out into the square. Hermione used  _ alohomora _ on the front doors, went in, did her bit, came out, and zoomed up. Sure enough, after a few seconds the door opened and out came Holiday, wand out, looking round. We went into our little act.  
“'Walpurgis! That you, dearie?' called Hermione from above. 'Hey, Ignatz!' said Kenji from his side, and I chimed right in from the other side with 'Theodophilus, over here!' Holiday whipped his head round, following the voices, and his face seemed to get darker. Then Harry cast off his Cloak and said 'Hello, Chauncey!' That's when he snarled and raised his wand – or started to, to be precise, because Harry's  _ Expelliarmus! _ jerked it away from him before he got it up. Kenji and I both hit him fair and square with Stunners, and down he went. Simple as that.”

Harry had Holiday's wand, of course, and Hermione tied him up in a neat bundle with some rope she Summoned. (“Not really sure where it came from, I'm afraid” she told me, “but there's always some rope in a village, and we'll replace it.”) Orderic and his crew had been pre-positioned, and anyone in the village who stirred, or lit a light, was quickly visited and rather easily convinced it was all just a dream, or simply forgot it entirely. In fact, he had sent a Patronus to the Ministry, and more Obliviators had arrived, but they didn't have much to do.

Abner and a couple of the Obliviators took Walpurgis Ignatz Theodophilus Chauncey Holiday back to the Ministry and saw him put to bed in one of the cells on the 10 th level.  _ Now positively guaranteed to be Basilisk-free, or your money back,  _ I thought. 

The rest of us slipped into the church, and went on into the robing room, or whatever it was, through the door behind the altar. It wasn't a big room, and was a bit crowded with all of us, but it had no windows. I got the computer going and fired up the Sniffer – and then turned it over to Kenji, who was well ahead of me in understanding the new version.

The vault – we had all begun using that word, after I told them what Holiday had said – showed up big and bright and as multicolored as ever. It looked like a box, and was clearly underground, apparently partly under the church itself, about halfway between the entrance and the altar. At first we couldn't see anything that looked like a door, or an access passage. Then Kenji used his wand to do some fine-tuning or supercharging or something, and two sort of ghostly-looking areas appeared, sticking out from each end of the box. They weren't very well defined, and we couldn't tell where they ended – they just seemed to go all fuzzy and disappear.

The big question was: what sort of spells, hexes and jinxes might be in use here, to keep the vault secret and secure? Here's where we ran into a roadblock – or rather, a maze. There were a lot of them, apparently. Different colors, patches of color, and sort of in-between shades, as well as what looked like several bordering outlines, in different shades – none of them black or red (or purple, thank goodness!) but clearly this was not a simple situation. My own training in this area turned out to be less useful than I thought it would: every time I thought I recognized something, someone – Bill, Kenji, or Hermione usually – would come up with an excellent reason why it might be something else. Bill's experience as a curse-breaker for Gringott's had given him a lot of background in dodgy magic from other countries (he'd spent a lot of time in Egypt, for instance). Hermione, to my surprise and Kenji's (but apparently no one else's), produced a small stack of books on magical history and antique spells, and kept finding old formulas (some of them pretty odd, too) which might have been used in Ignotus's day. I knew Kenji grew up in Minneapolis, but he turned out to have considerable knowledge of Asian magic, and he tossed out a few possibilities that surprised the other two.

Finally, Harry called a halt. “All right everyone, just hang on a bit and let's think this through again. It certainly looks like this vault dates from away back, but according to dear old Chauncey,” he grinned quickly and we grinned back, “it may have been entered, recently, by one or both of the Americans. With all these protective spells...how did they know how to do that?”

“Without, apparently, disturbing anyone or leaving any trace,” pointed out Kenji.

“Yes, and without a team of Obliviators,” observed Bill. “It was only one, or at most two of them.”

“How did they know it was there in the first place?” asked Hermione.

“Maybe the way they found out, whatever it was, included instructions for entering the place?” Even as I said it, I was thinking how thin and speculative that sounded.

“Maybe,” said Harry. “But if they could manage it, we ought to be able to...if, in fact, this is where they stashed their money.”

“That's something I've been wondering about,” put in Ron. “D'you think there might be another vault somewhere around here? I mean, I know Wally Holly said he didn't find anything, but he's not exactly the greatest wizard in history, is he?”

“Hardly,” agreed Hermione. “You're right, Ron, he might simply have missed something with really good concealment spells, or not have found it yet, I suppose. But we did look at the whole area, back in London, and this was the only vault we saw.”

“Back in London...” Kenji and I spoke simultaneously. We looked at each other and then at Harry, who was smiling and nodding.

“Would we get more detail from here? Sounds to me like it's worth having a go.”

Now Kenji and I were nodding, and I gave him an after-you-Alphonse gesture. He typed something quickly on the keyboard, and leveled his wand. The display zoomed out to take in the whole village, and again we saw the Potter home, the Bagshot house, and the obelisk in the square. We saw quite a number of other houses that indicated a Wizarding family, showing up as green patches.

Kenji looked at Harry, and cocked his head. “Somehow, Harry, I don't think these guys would have used your family's place to stash things.”

“I hope not.” Harry's face darkened. “I hate the thought of them going in there.”

“Not at all likely, I think.” Bill put his hand on Harry's shoulder. “They never understood why Volde-- I mean, Tom Riddle – came to grief in that house, but they certainly know he did. Doubt if they so much as set foot on the property.” Harry looked up at him with a brief smile, and Bill dropped his hand. “Still, let's not waste this chance of making sure, what d'you say?” Harry nodded, and we all looked at Kenji.

The display zoomed in on the Potter property, which showed up as a bright, warm, living green. Kenji used the keyboard a couple of times, and pointed his wand at the screen. After a moment, he said wonderingly, “There's not a trace of black magic here. This is where, uh, Riddle committed two murders with an unforgivable curse, right? And tried to commit a third, and  _ did _ create a  _ Horcrux _ ?” When everyone nodded without speaking, he went on, “There ought to be some residue, some echoes of that much magic, that black and that strong. But at this range, we'd see it if there were. There's nothing. It's like it's been washed clean. The counter-spell must have been – must be – amazingly powerful.”

“Yes,” said Hermione quietly. “Dumbledore understood that. It's what kept Harry safe for sixteen years. Of course it no longer worked at the Dursleys' after Harry turned seventeen, but I shouldn't be surprised if it was quite permanent in this house.”

“It's amazing. I want to talk more about this, but later. For now, well, there is one other thing I could try. I mean, as long as we're...making sure?” Kenji looked at Harry, who nodded, and went on, “We've been working on a way to detect embedded emotions in things...” Seeing expressions of surprise and non-comprehension pass over our faces, Kenji hastily explained, “When something happens that generates a really powerful emotion, nearby objects – or even the ground, whatever is close – can sort of absorb some of that emotion, become impregnated with it I guess you could say. We've been tinkering with a way to detect and display these – well, emotional residues, or echoes, or whatever you want to call them. Now this is nowhere near finished, and very confidential at this point, OK? But I've got a version of the spell with me, and this looks like a very good opportunity to test it. Would you mind, Harry?”

“No.” Harry's forehead was creased, and he looked uncertain, but he repeated, “No, go ahead. 's all right.”

Kenji typed and used his wand. The display blanked for a couple of seconds, then came back up again, still focused closely on the Potter property. But this time, it was red instead of green, a lovely, warm, deeply saturated rose-red that was somehow...cheering? Warming? Uplifting? Good to look at, anyway.

“The colors mean completely different things here. You've got to keep that in mind. If we were detecting magic, red is a warning – but emotionally, red means only one thing: love.” Kenji spoke slowly. “This house is deeply saturated with love. I've never seen anything like this. I expected to see fear and hatred – those would be yellow and blue – but there's none of that.”

“Yeah, well, that's what Dumbledore said the spell was, didn't he?” Ron spoke quietly, but with conviction. “Love. Harry's parents loved him so much they gave up their lives tryin' to protect him. And it worked.”

“Yes, exactly,” said Hermione softly. “Harry, it's – oh, Harry.” At the tone of her voice we all looked at Harry, who was standing there, looking at the display, with tears running down his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he said after a moment, “it's just that – oh, I knew what Dumbledore said, but seeing it like this...” He shook his head, still staring at the screen, seeming to grope for a word, then plunged on, “...and, I mean, I always...thought that house was...tainted, or infected, or poisoned or something...but it's not, is it? Just love...washed clean...”

I didn't know British people did group hugs. Later, Ron told me there was a massive one just after Harry defeated Riddle, but this one took me by surprise. Not that I hung back. Kenji started to, but I grabbed him, and we all stood there for...I don't know how long. Awhile. When we pulled back a little, Harry looked around at us all, his face wet, and focused on Kenji.

“Kenji, thank you. I don't know yet how much that new spell of yours is going to help the aurors, but it's certainly done a lot for me. Made me realize. I've spent a lot of my life thinking about what I lost, over in that house, and now....well, perhaps it's time I started giving more attention to what I've gained. Like friends. And...” his voice trailed off. He didn't say “Ginny,” but he didn't have to.

Across people's heads, Hermione's wide-open eyes met mine, and then she dissolved in tears and buried her head on Ron's shoulder. I knew just what she was thinking.  _ Maybe this is the start of the healing process. _ I still had an arm around Kenji's shoulders and I squeezed good and hard for a moment.

“Here, now, Hermione! It's all good, really...” Harry began, and she interrupted him.

“Oh, Harry, don't you know by now that girls cry when they're happy?”

“Yes, I know, but for the life of me, I don't under--” He stopped because Hermione was wiping his face with a handkerchief she had produced from somewhere. Do girls all have handkerchiefs all the time? Are they issued at birth or something? It just sort of appeared like magic. Come to think of it, Hermione  _ is _ a witch. But still. 

I think the rest of us just used our sleeves, I know I did.

“All right, then, friends, one of the things I've gained is a job to do, and we don't have all night, you know. Some of these local folk are up before the sun.” Harry's gentle tone brought us all back to earth in the kindest way, and I thought,  _ What a leader he is – he's a natural.  _ We turned back toward the screen, and Kenji shifted the focus to the old Bagshot house. 

That looked very different. Ugly. The green background was faded, and splotched with the colors of black magic. A sort of sparkly charteuse splotch lay over the front and rear exits, and in some of the rooms: the program identified it as a personal-protection spell, which neutralized hexes and jinxes. “What d'you want to bet Wally Holly put that there, when he was prowlin' the place?” said Ron.

Bill nodded. “Very likely, Ron. I know a couple like that, and I'll use 'em if we want to go in there.”

“I don't see anything that looks like a locking spell or a concealment hex,” I said, “do you, Kenji?”

“No, nothing like that. Of course, if it was a Fidelius charm, and they made it unplottable, it wouldn't show. Someday, maybe, we'll figure out how to detect unplottable places, but we haven't yet.”

“Can you make just one room unplottable?” Ron wanted to know. “Wouldn't it have to be the whole house?”

“Oh, certainly,” answered Bill. “You can do it to a drawer, or even a box. Bit finicky, actually, getting the spell right, but it's quite possible.”

“Maybe we should have Jamie try his smoke-spell on this place,” I suggested.

“Guess we'll have to come back, then,” agreed Harry. “But why don't you try your emotion-detector here? I'll bet there's a big blob of fear in that room where Nagini attacked us. I know I was scared as hell!”

“OK,” said Kenji, adding, “or should I say right-o?” This got a round of chuckles, but he was already bringing up the other display. It was even uglier. Fear is a really disgusting yellow color, and I never thought blue could be so nasty as the icy shade that signifies hate. The blotches were all through the building, and there was a place where the blue shaded all the way to black – Kenji thought that was where Bathilda Bagshot had died. We easily identified the room where Harry and Hermione had fought Riddle's snake-horcrux-familiar, and the fear color was brightest over by the window.

“That's where we went out,” breathed Hermione. “I was terrified.”

Kenji moved the focus through the building, and Bill was the one who saw it first. “What in Merlin's name is that?”

It was a blank space. Well, not exactly blank, it was a very faint lilac-purple. But it didn't have any of the intense emotional splotches that covered the rest of the house. As Kenji zoomed the display in and out, it appeared that this space – roughly rectagonal, and maybe 20 feet in its largest dimension – was under the house, under the first floor at any rate, where a basement would be. But there was no other sign of a basement or cellar.

“Well, well, well, what do you know?” Kenji was intent. “It looks to me like that's a hidden space, probably unplottable and Fidelius-ed, but it's saturated with an emotion strong enough to trip the emotion detector. Didn't know it would do that.”

“But...purple?” I asked.

“Looks more like lilac,” observed Bill.

“Violet, I'd say,” put in Ron

“Heliotrope, perhaps?” suggested Hermione.

“It's not a box of crayons,” said Harry dryly. “What's the emotion, Kenji”

Kenji looked around at all of us with his eyes alight and a shark-like smile on his face, and then looked back at the display. “Avarice,” he said. “Intense, pure, naked greed.”

************


	26. Treasures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One valuable discovery leads to another, and this time it's beyond price.

“Bingo.” I didn't realize I had said it aloud until Ron turned his head and looked perplexed. “Sorry. I should have said 'tally-ho!' If that space isn't full of gold, I'll eat whatever  _ is _ in it.” 

“You think?” Ron grinned.

“Holiday must have been standing top of it the whole time he was in there!” marveled Harry.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “and telling him about that would probably qualify as 'cruel and unusual punishment' under the United States Constitution. So let's make sure and do that over here.”

“That's not really fair, you know,” observed Hermione. “It's probably unplottable and protected by the Fidelius charm, as we said. There's no way he could have detected it. Still, he isn't exactly the sharpest quill in the packet, is he?”

“No,” agreed Bill judiciously, “but he was apparently smart enough to avoid becoming a Death Eater.”

“Unless they were smart enough not to take him,” pointed out Ron.

“All right,” said Harry. “We seem to have found what we came after, but how are we going to get to it? The Secret-Keepers are dead, aren't they?”

“Are they?” I was wondering. “Let's see – Holiday obviously isn't one of them. According to him, Fangboner would have been Primary Secret-Keeper, and Joey must have been a Secondary, if he killed Fangboner; he wouldn't have gone that far if it would have locked him out.”

“No, he wouldn't. That's clear enough,” Harry thought a moment, “if Holiday can be believed. He could have done for Fangboner himself, and tried to push the blame off on Joey.”

“I don't think so,” objected Hermione thoughtfully. “Holiday didn't seem concerned about blame – after all, he admitted killing Joey, didn't he?”

“Not in so many words,” I replied, “but he did say that Joey was suddenly taken all over dead while he was 'encouraging' him to talk. As confessions go, that's close enough for government work. Harry, I think you're right: here were two Secret-Keepers, and they're both dead.”

Bill lifted a finger, and said, “Hang on, wasn't there a third fellow? Wright?”

“Damocles Wright,” I confirmed, “Fangboner's deputy. But he was relatively new, and it looks like Joey and Fangboner had a long head start on their embezzling before Wright arrived. Somehow I don't think they would have happily cut him a piece of their pie, or trusted him as a Secondary. Besides, I suspect we know what happened to Wright.”

“We do? Oh! I see what you mean.” Harry is quick on the uptake.

“Yeah. I think it was his arm we found sticking out of that trap door on Mount Street. Process of elimination. Now we know that Joey wasn't in there, so it's odds-on that he set off that bomb; since he must have known it didn't explode, he must have croaked Fangboner before that, or he wouldn't have been sure he was dead.”

Hermione was nodding as I talked. “Yes. And the fellow at the trap door wasn't a corpse – I mean, he obviously died trying to escape.”

“All that makes good sense,” said Harry, “but it's not actually proof, you know. We don't have any of those three bodies, and probably won't get them. Still, it's good enough to be going on with, I think – although we'll list them officially as 'missing, presumed dead.' But that brings me back to my original question: if the Secret-Keepers are all dead, how do we defeat the Fidelius Charm and get into the vault?”

Bill frowned, and said, “I know a couple of things we can try – we're actually in a good position, since the problem usually is to find the location in the first place. But what I've got in mind will take a bit of time. I think we'd do well to consult Jamie first. And I'd like to send an owl to Professor Flitwick, too. D'you suppose the, ah, vault will be safe enough if we leave it for a bit and come back another night?”

Everybody looked at me. “Well...I guess so. The only danger would be from a Secret-Keeper, and I can't think who that would be. After all, it's been sitting there this long...we think.”

“Would it help if I had Abner make an official-unofficial visit to his friend here, and keep an eye on things? Shouldn't be long. Now that we know where it is, we'll just push on until we've got the job done. What d'ye think, Bill, back here in two or three days?”

“Four at most, I should think.”

“Thanks, Harry, I really would feel better if someone was keeping an eye on the trove, or alleged trove. But look, before we leave, there's something else I'd like to try.” Harry cocked his head at me in polite inquiry. “Remember what happened when we looked at old Ignotus Peverell's gravestone?”

“You mean that vibration that started up? Yes I do.”

“What vibration? You mean he was turning over in his grave?” Ron looked alarmed.

“No, nothing like that, unless he was making quite a lot of revs!” laughed Harry. “If there'd been traffic on the road, I wouldn't have thought anything of it, but of course there wasn't. And it stopped as soon as we stepped back. Ryan, have you got some idea about what it was?”

“Not exactly. But since we've seen the scan, thinking back, it seems to me that the vibration might have been coming from that – vault, or whatever it is, under here.”

“That's odd,” said Hermione. “Harry and I were here last Christmas, and we stopped in front of the Peverell stone for some little time. Dug away the snow a bit, in fact. But I didn't feel any vibration. Did you, Harry?”

“No.”

“Huh, I didn't realize that. So...what was different this time?” I looked back and forth at Harry and Hermione, who pursed her lips and wrinkled her brow.  
“Well, that was winter, it's summer now...and I was with Harry, instead of you, Ryan.”

“Don't see how that makes any difference.”

“No, I can't either.” If you can be annoyed and preoccupied at the same time, that's how she looked.

“I was just thinking that – you know, Harry is a direct descendant, aren't you, Harry?”

“Yeah, I think I must be. I inherited the Cloak from my Dad, when all's said.”

“I'd been thinking that somehow the spell recognized you as a family member...but why that didn't happen last Christmas has me stymied. You'd think--”

“I know! I've got it!” For a moment I imagined Hermione was going to raise her hand, as if she were back in class and the Prof had just asked a tough question. “When we were there last time, you weren't yourself, Harry!” She turned to me. “We had both taken polyjuice potion, and we were disguised as elderly Muggles.”

“That's right, I'd forgotten.” Now Harry turned to me. “So you think I should go out and try that again, see what happens?”

“Why not? Might be nothing, but it won't take long, and right now we've got a full team on hand, including obliviators, if it does turn out to be something...uhh...interesting...” I'm sure everyone was thinking some British-language version of what I was thinking:  _ What with all those unidentified hexes and jinxes, this could get way more interesting that we expect, real fast. _ Or maybe just  _ Here we go again! _

Kenji packed up the computer and followed the rest of us outside. The moon was high in the sky and it was almost as bright as day. Harry called Orderic down with a discrete shower of yellow sparks from his wand, and told him what was up. Then, with the rest of us following about fifteen feet behind, he made his way into the graveyard and stood in front of Ignotus Peverell's headstone.

Nothing.

“There were two of you,” Hermione whispered. “Ryan, go stand with him.” So I did.

Nothing.

Harry and I looked at each other, and I had a thought. “Harry, there was one other thing. You were wearing...”

“...the Invisibility Cloak. Ignotus's share of the Deathly Hallows. Right.” He pulled the cloak out of his robes and threw it over his head....and as he vanished, the vibration started.

We stayed there, and I decided to make an experiment – I muttered “stay here,” and backed away as we had done before, but this time the vibration continued. It did seem to be coming from the direction of the buried vault, and it got steadily stronger. After a little while we started to hear a very low-pitched rumble, which got louder and became mixed with the sound of stone grating on stone. Ignotus's headstone suddenly moved – it rocked a little, and then started sliding down into the ground like a piece of bread going into the toaster.

“Blimey! Zombies!” Ron's voice from behind me was breathy and nervous, but Hermione's equally soft reply was merely exasperated: “Oh, please! Do be quiet.”

When the top of the headstone disappeared, a rectangle of lawn behind it sort of lit up. The vibration and the sounds rose to a muted climax and stopped. The rectangle split down the middle of the longer axis, and both halves fell in, as though hinged along the outside.

The moonlight revealed a stone staircase, going down into the ground, right toward the buried vault. We all stared at it, and then Harry's voice came.

“Stay here, everyone. I'm going to nip down and have a look.”

“Harry, wait!” Bill spoke urgently. “We should check this out first. It could be very dangerous.”

“It opened up for me, and I think it'll be all right – for me at least. In any case, I'm in charge, and I'm giving myself permission...so stay where you are, all of you!” His voice started to fade a bit and I could hear his grin as he said “It's good to be the king, you know!”

All this seemed to me like it had taken hours, but afterwards it turned out Hermione had the presence of mind (and the pocket watch) to time the whole business. She says it took about fifty-five seconds for the stairway to open up, but only about twenty seconds to close.

And after a couple of minutes, while I was wondering if Harry had seen any Mel Brooks movies, that's just what it did, but faster. The vibration and noise returned, the halves of the rectangular door swung back up, the glow died, and the headstone slid back up into place.

“Harry!” Bill called out, still speaking softly. There was no answer.

“You there, mate?” Ron was louder. Still no response.

After a breathless few seconds, Hermione said “Oh, Harry!” and we were all talking at once, trying to keep our voices down but getting louder anyway. This went on for some minutes. I was trying to shush them, but the only one I was officially in charge of was Kenji, and he was the only one not saying anything. Then Orderic came down in a rush and landed beside us, which got everyone's attention. He made a pressing-down gesture with both hands, and spoke in a whisper:

“Keep it down, will you? We've got some lights coming on in a few cottages. Dawn'll be here in an hour, it's time we were going.” He looked around. “Where's Harry?” We all tried to answer his question at once, and his face snapped into a grimace, his hands flashed that gesture again, and he said “Shush!” in a tone of whisper that stopped us all instantly.

I raised a finger, and whispered, “Harry opened up a staircase, leading down to that vault. He went down for a look-see, and it closed up on him.”

“Lovely.”

“We're waiting,to see if he comes back.”

Orderic inhaled deeply, looked at the group, and said in a low tone, “If you lot aren't out of here right soon now, the village'll be waking up, and  _ my _ lot'll be here for hours, a whole day most like, straightening people out.”

Bill cut in quickly but quietly. “He's right. Let's leave one person here. Harry's got the Cloak, and the two of them can use it together. The rest of us – wait!”

He stopped because the vibration had started again. Orderic felt it and looked around, and I leaned into him and whispered “It's opening again. Watch the headstone.” The process unfolded as before, and when the door in the ground fell open, I held my breath again.

“It's all right, don't worry.” Harry's voice started out with a bit of an echo or reverb effect on it, as he came up the stairs, and then it was in the open, clear and direct, coming closer. “Sorry about that. Didn't mean to let it close, and it took me a moment to figure out what happened. I'll tell you all about it—-” Suddenly he was standing in front of us, folding up the Cloak. “-- after we get back. Orderic! Ready to go then? Good job.”

As he took off the Cloak, the vault started to close up again, and Harry turned to watch. After the headstone was back in place, looking like it hadn't moved in centuries, he turned back to us. The suppressed excitement in his voice had gotten everyone's attention, and the eagerness in his face was electric.

“Lets be off!” We left Godric's Hollow like a fighter squadron scrambling, and hardly talked at all until we had Apparated back to London and were back in Harry's office at the Ministry. When we got there and flopped gratefully onto the furniture, it actually took as a couple of minutes to notice that Bill wasn't with us, but before we could do more than state the fact, the door opened and in he came.

“Stopped off to order up some coffee, and a bit of breakfast,” he said cheerfully. This got him an immediate round of applause, to which he responded with a deep theatrical bow before collapsing into a chair.

“Brilliant, Bill,” said Harry. “Service above and beyond the call. I'll write you up for an M.B.W.E.” This got a laugh from the Britishers, while Kenji and I looked at each other, shrugged, and turned our palms up.

“Member of the British Wizarding Empire,” explained Ron, chuckling. “It's one of the honors the Queen gives out every year on the Wizarding Honors List at Halloween, but it's the lowest one, and they give MBWE's out by the boatload. It is an honor and all that, but, well – bit of a joke, really. We used to say you could get one for cleaning up after your dog on the street in front of Parliament. Haven't you got anything like that in America?”

“Not exactly. The closest thing is probably the awards for advertising. But they're not always given out by a queen.” Kenji laughed aloud, but the others just chuckled politely and I shook my head. “Take too long to explain. Wait'll you visit America, you'll see.”

“Well, I'm tired of waiting to hear what you found in that vault, Harry!”

“Pretty amazing, Hermione. But now that I've got the thought in my mind, I'd really like a coffee first. Bill, how long is that likely to take? Come to think of it, where did you go to order up this time of the morning?”

“Only place I could think of,” Bill began, but he was interrupted by three imperious knocks on the outer door and Molly Weasley's voice.

“Where are you lot, then? Hallooo!”

“Back here, mum!” Bill jumped up and ran out and in a moment Molly, Ginny, and Arthur followed him into Harry's office, each shepherding a collection of floating coffeepots, cups, saucers, silverware and such with their wands. After everything had been settled down on Harry's desk (he hurriedly lifted all the stacks of paper with his wand, and plastered them up on the ceiling with a holding charm) and we had all gotten a steaming cup in our hands, Molly bustled around the room with a hug and kiss for everyone, even Kenji (when he was introduced) which surprised him – that is, all except Harry, who only got a kiss on the top of his head because Ginny was sitting in his lap.

“Now,” said Molly, “eggs and bacon be all right for breakfast?”

“You haven't started cooking yet?” I asked.

“No, Bill came in like a young whirlwind, he did, woke us all up and said you lot'd been up all night and needed coffee, 'on an emergency basis,' if you please!”

“Perfect! The three of you – well, the two of you, find a seat and grab a cup. Harry's found something and is going to tell us what it is, but he said he really needed coffee first. If we wait for breakfast, there's a good chance that Hermione, and maybe two or three more of us, will explode from curiosity.”

“Found something?” Arthur looked at me. “Did you find the American gold?”

“Well, yes, at least we think so. But this is something else.”

Harry told Arthur and Molly about the vault under the church, and embarrassed me all to hell by going on about how it was only due to my brilliant inspiration that we found the way in. I resolved to have a word with him about all that, but later, because now that we had him talking I was as eager as anyone to hear the rest. Ginny kissed Harry on the forehead and moved over to a chair next to his. She accepted a cup of coffee from her father, a bit absently, and like the rest of us, her eyes were on Harry as he set down his cup and spoke.

“Well, the moonlight didn't reach all the way down the stairs, it must be thirty feet or more underground, so I had my wand lit when I reached the bottom. There's a door, made of wood with iron hinges, but it just swung right open as I approached. It was completely silent, the hinges didn't make a bit of noise. The vault itself is smaller than I thought, maybe eight feet by ten inside. The computer showed it as perhaps double that, any idea why?”

“Really thick walls?” I guessed.

“We may have been looking at the outer extent of the protective spells,” Kenji offered thoughtfully. “Interesting.”

“Well, be that as it may, it's all made of stone except the wood in the door. There wasn't much in the place, actually. Just a stone table, carved out of a single piece it looked like. The legs look like those columns in the old Roman ruins, fluted vertically and with ornate capitals at the top and bottom. On the table...” he paused, and everybody sort of leaned forward. “...I found two things, and here they are.” From inside his robes, he pulled out a small box of polished wood. (When we measured it later, it was a little under ten inches long, exactly six inches wide, and almost four inches high. Hermione said excitedly that it was a “golden rectangle” and when we all looked blank, she rolled her eyes and added, “Didn't  _ any _ of you pay attention in Arithmancy?”) 

Harry set the box on the desk, reached into his robes again and extracted an envelope, which had been torn open, and held it up.

Written across the front, in flowing script, was  **Harry Potter** .

We all gasped, in unison. Molly and Ginny covered their mouths; the guys all just let their jaws drop.

“Of course I opened it. Trying to read it with the Cloak on was rather awkward, though, and I slipped it off. That's when the thing closed up, and I am sorry I gave you all such a fright. I didn't realize what was happening, I think because the door must have silently closed behind me, probably first off, and the noise and vibration didn't penetrate the chamber. At any rate, I was utterly fascinated by the letter, because it's from my father.”

That completely stunned us all, and even the girls just sat there open-mouthed. I can only imagine how Harry must have felt – well, actually, no, I can't, but you know what I mean. No wonder he didn't notice the vault close up. Ginny put down her coffee, got up and stood behind Harry, putting her hands on his shoulders. Without taking his eyes off the envelope, he reached up and covered her right hand with his for a moment. Then he pulled three or four sheets of parchment from the envelope and said, “Let me read you the beginning.” He cleared his throat, and began:

> _ Dear Harry, if you are reading this letter it's because I haven't been able to bring you here and tell you about the Peverell family vault in person. I certainly intend to do so, when you're old enough, but things are pretty uncertain right now, because of a bad Wizard whose name I won't mention. If you do read this, you'll know what I'm talking about. _
> 
> _My father brought me here when I was twelve. He told me that our ancestor, Ignotus Peverell, either built this vault himself, or possibly found it here and converted it to his own use. He certainly put down all of the oldest concealment and protection spells, and one family story has it that he got his brother to help him, using the Elder Wand. By now, I'm sure you must know the story of the three brothers and the Deathly Hallows from Beedle the Bard, just like I did when I first came here._
> 
> _The vault only opens to a direct descendant of Ignotus. I am one, and so are you, and someday, so will your children be. But mark this: you have to be within ten feet of the entrance, and you must be wearing the Invisibility Cloak, which was Ignotus's personal Hallow, for the vault to open. If you take off the Cloak inside the vault, it will close up and lock you in. Just put the Cloak back on when you want to get out._

Harry stopped reading and looked up. “I was so intent on the letter that I kept on reading, and it was only when I finished that I looked round, saw the door had shut, and thought about you lot, standing around watching the vault close up with me inside. So I put the Cloak back on and sure enough, in a bit the door swung open and the steps were there again. Didn't mean to frighten you.”

“No worries, mate.” Ron said what was in all our minds. “I think it's pretty amazing you thought of us that quick, really. I mean, a letter from your Dad! Must have rocked your world. Well go on then, what else does he say?”

“I'm not going to read the whole thing. He cautions me to only visit the Vault in the dead of night, because nobody in the village even knows it exists. Then he says that all the family money and valuables were kept there, up until modern times. It was his Grand-dad who finally decided that using Gringott's was safe enough, and a lot more convenient, I'd guess.”

Harry put the letter down and picked up the box. “But there was one exception to that, and it's this. The letter tells how to open it, and again, I'm the only one who can.” He tapped the box with his wand, and the lid lifted. It was hinged on the long side; the workmanship was so fine that the crack between top and bottom hadn't been visible at all. Inside was a cloth lining that looked like silk, a faint cream color, and arranged in an oval on the lining were twelve deep red jewels, gleaming and glinting. I noticed they stayed in place regardless of how the box was situated. Harry propped the box up on his coffee cup, so we could all see them, and picked up the letter. “Here's what he wrote about the box,” he said, and read:

> _...the box contains the Peverell Rubies. They have quite a story behind them, and some day I'll tell you the entire tale. They were brought to Britain a very long time ago, even before the Romans came. Some say they came from King Solomon's mines, but another story is that they come from the Orient, perhaps India or China. Wherever it was, they were shaped by a very great Wizard or Witch, who gave them permanent magical powers. _
> 
> _ These rubies have a very powerful spell on them, which is actuated by the presence of true love. Please understand, they are nothing at all like a 'love potion.' They cannot create love, or the semblance of love, where none exists. But when you find the right person, the girl who becomes your one-and-only, as your Mother is for me, give her one of these. As you move through life, the jewel will cause your love to become deeper, truer, and more mature.  _
> 
> _When you find the box, there may be fewer than twelve rubies, but do not worry about that. Both my Father and my Grandfather gave rubies to their dearest friends, and I plan to do the same, whenever Sirius Black decides to get married. Your Mother and I each wear one in our wedding rings, but my Mother wore hers in her engagement ring, and Dad did not wear one. It didn't seem to make any difference, because they had a lovely marriage._
> 
> _The Peverell Rubies have another virtue. They cannot be lost. If stolen or misplaced, they will find their way back to their owner. And, if the love should die, or when the person who wears them dies, they come back and take their place in this box._

Harry folded the letter and set it down. Then he reached up and took both of Ginny's hands, guiding her so she stood beside him. Picking up the box, he held it open and said “Ginny, you are my one-and-only, as Dad put it, and you always will be. Please, choose one. We'll have it set however you like, but I don't want to wait another minute to give you this.” There was not a sound in the room as Ginny, her eyes brimming with wonder and love, picked out the ruby at the top of the oval. It came away easily in her fingers, and she held it cupped in her hands, looking at it, as Harry closed the box and stood.

Then their arms were around each other and they were kissing...and so were Ron and Hermione...and Arthur and Molly. Bill and Kenji and I just looked at each other and grinned, and I heard a fragment of an old song run through my mind:

_Some starry night, when her kisses make you tingle_

_You'll hold her tight, and you'll hate yourself for being single_


	27. A Walk In The Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at The Burrow, everyone rests and recovers, but now Harry and Ron are facing personal dilemmas they can't resolve.

It was inevitable: we all went to the Burrow for breakfast. Molly put her foot down – she was not going to negotiate those “bloody lifts” again while levitating a hot meal. And it wasn't like we were in any shape to accomplish anything at the office, anyhow. Harry sent a couple of those flying memos to Kingsley and Elliott; they would hover around the door until people showed up. Bill begged off, saying he really ought to get back to Fleur, and Kenji was reluctant to intrude, he said, until I insisted he come along and everyone backed me up.

Breakfast was on the table in an amazingly short time, partly because Kenji, to everyone's surprise including mine, turned out to be a cook, and sweet-talked Molly into letting him help. She agreed, I think, mostly because Arthur was no help, Bill was gone, and Ginny was clearly grafted onto Harry. But let me tell you, Kenji has the touch, and everything he did came out “G.B.D.” as chefs say, “golden brown and delicious.” By the time they served the meal he and Molly were old friends, chattering away, and everyone was smiling.

Try this: pull an all-nighter, concentrating hard, doing strenuous physical things that give you repeated adrenaline rushes. Then drink six or eight cups of coffee and eat full servings of eggs, bacon, ham, oatmeal, pumpkin juice, buttered toast and cinnamon rolls. Wait ten or fifteen minutes. Then try to stay awake. Neither could we.

Charlie Weasley was back with his dragons again, so I crashed out in his room. The dragon posters all woke up when I went in, but all I did was say, “Hiya, fellas,” and fall into bed. When I woke up, it was mid-afternoon, judging by the scene out the window. When I made my way downstairs I found that one of us did stay awake. Kenji, Molly, and Arthur were sitting in the kitchen with the teapot and cups, several plates of cookies and muffins, and a yellow sponge cake over two feet long. Kenji was saying,

“...basic principle of a wok is that the heat varies – hottest right at the bottom, and cooler as you go up the sides. That's why the food has to keep moving, but the Chinese spell works differently than the Japanese spell. You put the Chinese spell on your favorite utensil, like your big metal spoon, and it keeps the food moving equally through the heated places until you stop it and take over. But you put the Japanese spell on the food itself – and the food moves on its own. You don't use the utensil at all until you're ready to take over manually. The spell I learned in class also insures that each piece of food, when it gets close to being done just right, moves itself up the side of the wok and just keeps warm. Makes using a wok so easy! Doing it all by hand, like my mother, is a lot of work, you can't do anything else at the same time, and it really takes a lot of skill.”   
“Ah! Welcome back to the land of the living.” Arthur had noticed me standing in the doorway, and Molly looked up.

“ _ There _ you are! Here now, sit down and have a nice cup of tea with us.” A cup and saucer were already flying out of a cupboard, and they landed in front of an empty chair. “Kenji's been telling us about Oriental cooking, his family's Japanese you know, and it's got me all in a whirl. You do have such lovely friends, Ryan. Have a muffin. And you must try some of Kenji's sponge cake, what's it called again, castle cake?”

“Castella,” said Kenji. “That's the English pronunciation. The Japanese would make it more like kasu-terra. It was something I could make with what Molly has on hand; most of the Japanese recipes I know use things like sweet bean paste and rice flour, and I'm going to pick some things up in London and come back here, one of these days soon, and we'll have some fun!”

“That we will!” Molly was beaming as she set a plate of cake in front of me and made the sugar bowl and cream pitcher scoot over to my place. “There you go, tuck right in, dear, we've had ours! We were just talking – well, Kenji has a lovely way with kitchen magic, and we got to going on about household spells and all, and would you believe it, his parents are Muggles!” She patted Kenji on the arm. “I mean, I'm sure they're awfully nice people, dear, and your mother sounds a wonderful cook, but Ryan, he had no one to show him things, growing up. Now, when I was a girl I always saw my mother using magic for cooking, and to keep things clean and neat, you know. When I was old enough she taught me all her charms and spells, of course. And when I asked Kenji how he learned his kitchen magic, he said they teach ordinary household magic at your school! I was ever so surprised.”

“Yes!” Arthur jumped in. “When Molly and I were at Hogwarts, we both knew students who had Muggle parents, and we were always showing them some of those little ordinary everyday sort of spells, to fold clothes or remove a spot or pack a suitcase, that sort of thing. Never thought of having a proper class for household magic, but it would certainly be more useful than some of the classes I tried to keep awake in.”

“Actually,” I said, as I washed down the last of my sponge cake (it was really good!) with a swallow of suitably adulterated tea, “I learned at least as much in that class as any other I took. Kenji and I both went to Indiana Wizarding, but he was a few years ahead of me. Kenji, did you have Livermore for Household Magic?”

“I sure did! She had just started. Tallulah Livermore! A ball of fire, never stopped moving, run you right off your feet.”

“If you didn't trip over her.” I looked at Arthur and Molly. “She's only about three and a half feet tall. But her class was very popular. You learned things you could use all the time, and that was fun. Kids from Wizarding families signed up for it too, and she always encouraged them to show the class things they learned at home. If a student could show her a better way to do something – or a different way that was worth teaching – she'd give extra credit.”

“You mean she'd learn from her students, as well as teaching them.” Molly was obviously fascinated.

“Yes. That's another reason everyone liked her class.”

“Well I never. I should have loved to have a class like that back at Hogwarts. Would you have signed up, Arthur?”

“Of course I would...if you were in it. That's how I chose all my electives. If Molly was in a class, I took it too.”

“Oh, go along with you.”

“Well, actually, I think I  _ would _ have taken that sort of class even if we couldn't be in it together. Aside from being useful, a boy might learn something he could use to impress his best girl! Seriously, though, I think an elective class in household magic would be a very good idea for Hogwarts...and I know who would be the perfect person to teach it.” Arthur paused there, deliberately poured himself more tea, and patiently went to work thickening it up. 

Finally Molly said, “All right, who then?”

“You, Molly.”

“Me? Teach?”

“Haven't you been teaching me and a houseful of children all these years?”

“Well, yes, but that's different.”

“Is it? I wonder.”

“Now really, the likes of me, a  _ professor _ at Hogwarts? Tchah! And even if there were such a class, just when would I have time to do that, now I ask you.”

“In a few months.”

“What?”

“After Ron and Ginny move out and start their own households.”

That stopped Molly in her tracks, and she and Arthur looked at each other with smiles on their lips and sadness in their eyes. Fortunately, before the moment became awkward, we were interrupted by Ginny and Hermione coming downstairs.

They were settling in at the table, which somehow was large enough now, when Harry poked his head in from the front room and said “Ah, there you are!” He had gone home to Grimmauld Place on the floo network, and just now returned the same way. He declined the offer of tea and cakes, though: he was full. His house-elf had gone to the trouble of having a breakfast ready the moment he awoke, and Harry couldn't bring himself to disappoint him. So he greeted everyone cheerfully, adding, “Quite a night, wasn't it?”

“Oh, yes, it most certainly was!” Hermione led a chorus of agreement.

“It really was a very nice bit of work,” said Arthur. “You got everything you went after...and a few things you didn't!”

Harry took that as a cue, came around and kissed Ginny briefly, not more than ten or fifteen seconds. Then he looked up and said “Where's Ron?” and when we all looked upwards he grinned and added “...as if I had to ask. He'd sleep a week if he could, but then he'd be mad at us for letting him! I'd better go get him. It's easy enough. Just whack him with a Quidditch bat for five or ten minutes, and he'll open his eyes and yawn.”

“Oh, very good, Harry!” bubbled Molly, laughing with the rest of us. “I must remember to try that!” Harry had Ron down among us, rubbing his eyes and yawning, in a jiffy. (In Britain, one jiffy equals half a tick.) Then he took Ginny off for a walk in the garden, while Hermione fed Ron tea and kissed him thoroughly, which finished the job Harry had started.

Arthur and I decided to go to the Ministry, telling everyone else we'd check with Elliott and Kingsley, and send for them if they were really needed. Making ourselves presentable with Molly's help, we climbed out of the fireplace on the empty side (across the hall, people were already lining up to go home) and went straight up to Kingsley's office. He sent for Elliott, who arrived promptly, and we told our tale.

“A very nice job indeed,” said Kingsley. “But after all that, I am a little surprised that Harry didn't come with you.”

Arthur smiled and looked at me, and I said, “Well, Harry had some, uh, very intense personal experiences last night. They helped him a lot, I think – he came to the Burrow when he woke up, and he was happier than I've ever seen him when we left. Arthur and I thought this ought to be encouraged. Fortunately, there was someone handy who's very good at that.”

Kingsley was smiling and nodding when Elliott spoke up. “I can certainly understand that. A letter from his  _ father _ , after all this time...great heavens, what that would mean to Harry. Well, I got his note this morning, and Abner's already gone back to Godric's Hollow. I had an owl from him an hour ago, and it's all arranged. He'll stay with his friends as long as needed.”

“That's good, thanks Elliott. It's probably not necessary, but I do feel better.”

“All in a day's work. And I checked on the prisoner, Mr. Holiday. He's fine, he's secure, and he's very unhappy with us.”

“Golly gee whillikers, now ain't that just too bad?”

“That brings up a question, Ryan.” Kingsley raised a finger. “Will the United States want to extradite him?”

“I'm not sure, but I'll find out. I don't know if he's wanted for anything back home, although it wouldn't surprise me one teensy little bit if he was. But he's surely broken  _ your _ laws, and I know the Department takes a very dim view of that.”

“Yes, quite,” agreed Elliott, “we've got him for Criminal Misuse of Magic, Unlawful Restraint, and Assault and Battery, to begin with. Might make a case for Kidnapping. We can tuck him away for quite awhile, if you don't need him back.”

I couldn't resist. “Tuck him.” I was looking at the wall over his head, or I couldn't have kept a straight face. “Go right ahead and prosecute, by all means. If it turns out we want to try him, we'll talk about it.” I turned back to the Minister. “The main thing I'm concerned with now is getting into that space in the old Bagshot house, and Bill Weasley's taking the lead there. He said it might take two or three days to prepare, and then we'll go back and pull its cork.”

That was it, really, for the day. Arthur checked his office while I sent a longish wemail to Blackstone, reporting our progress and asking about Holiday's status, and then we took the floo network back to The Burrow. When we got there, though, I found things had changed. Harry was sitting in the front room with Ron, and the happy mood had evaporated. Harry was looking troubled, and Ron looked like he was busy putting up with something.

“All right, Harry?” Arthur had noticed it too.

“Yeah, I'm fine.” Harry's smile seemed a little forced. “Ginny and Hermione have gone off for a girl talk, they said. Don't know why they have to do that.”

Arthur chuckled, and headed for the kitchen, saying “There are some things, Harry, that Man was not meant to know.”

“Cheer up, Harry, she'll be back soon.” My attempt at heartiness bounced off him.

“Yeah, I know, that's all right...it's...actually...well, more than that.”

“Can I help?”

“I don't see how. But thanks! Here, let's all take a walk, outside. I can't sit still.”

“Good idea. I usually think better on my feet anyway.”

Harry led the way and the three of us went out the front door, heading around the house to the back. The Burrow is built toward the road; there isn't a whole lot of front lawn – there's a garage and a chicken coop, complete with chickens. Most of the land is in the back. There's a big garden, and behind that, an orchard surrounded by trees. The garden was lush, too lush actually, because it was pretty well overgrown. Still, it was nice, and chock full of flowers. I didn't know them all, but I recognized phlox and lillies and gladioluses (gladioli?) and there was lily-of-the-valley over in the shade around the pond, and we swished through the long grass toward that.

“Let's not go too far,” said Harry, “I think Ginny and Hermione are in the orchard.”

“So what's up?”

Ron answered; Harry was looking at the orchard. “It's about getting married. We've both got problems, but Harry's is worse.”

“Frankly, mate, I'm terrified.” Harry sounded afraid. Also frustrated and bewildered.

“Of getting  _ married _ ?”

“No!” You had to be there to see how wrong I was. “I want to be married to Ginny more than anything in the world.” He drew a long breath. “It's the  _ wedding _ . It's out of control. Look, Ginny and I sat down to try making up a list of the people to invite, and in about five minutes we had almost three hundred names. It comes down to a lot of 'well, if we invite so-and-so, we have to invite this other person – or this other three or four people! – or they'll feel slighted.' It's crazy. There's no way I could deal with that, and more to the point I suppose, there's no way Arthur could pay for it, either.”

“Dad's been looking forward to Ginny's wedding ever since she was born, I think,” put in Ron. “And he's absolutely bound and determined to do it up right – I mean, you know, only daughter and all that.”

“Of course.”

“And you know,” Harry sounded miserable now, “there are quite a lot of people we really would like to invite. It's just that after all that's happened...so many people...” his voice trailed off.

“I'm beginning to see what you mean. You submit a nice little engagement announcement to the Daily Prophet...and they run it as the front-page headline. 'BOY WHO LIVED GETTING MARRIED' – with pictures and columns of gushing speculation. Presto! Social event of the year.”

“Oh my god.” Harry looked positively stricken. “I hadn't thought of that.”

“You're right, though.” Ron told me seriously, and looked at Harry. “Even if you don't announce the engagement, that's what'll happen as soon's the invitations go out. Merlin's trousers! People'll try and crash in – we'll need security.” He looked at me. “Hope that doesn't mean security at our wedding – Hermione's and mine. We'll have to have a Muggle wedding, it's looking. I mean, her parents know she's a witch, that part's all right, but she's got other family, and some old friends...” He drew a breath. “Ryan, have you got any ideas that  _ don't _ make things worse?”

“Well, maybe. Let's think about this for a minute.” I was stalling. “What you want is a nice, quiet, private wedding with your families and a few close friends – and a Wizarding wedding, in your case, Ron. Right?” They both nodded. “That way, you don't have to announce anything in advance; the people you invite would be people you can trust to keep quiet; and the Daily Prophet – and everyone else – would only hear about the wedding after it was over. You with me so far?”

Harry spread his hands. “But that's exactly when rather a lot of people would feel--”

“No, wait, stay with me. Now we've got to the nut of the problem, how to keep people from feeling bad. OK, what you need to make that happen is a reason. Not an excuse, but a real reason – preferably one that's pretty obvious to everyone – a good reason not to invite a whole lot of people.”

“Well, yeah, that'd work,” said Ron thoughtfully. “For Harry, anyway...for us...”

“I see what you mean now,” Harry picked the thread up after Ron's voice trailed off into silence. “Ginny said something like that, but we couldn't think of anything and gave up on it. But it does seem to be the only real solution, doesn't it? Trouble is, I can't--” I don't know what my face looked like, but things had started making connections in my brain, and Harry suddenly stopped and looked at me intently. Then he cocked his head and asked, “Ryan...am I very much mistaken, or are you having an idea?”

“Maybe.” I didn't speak for a moment. I could see ramifications, but I hadn't run into any roadblocks.

“Well, come on then, fess up!” urged Ron.

“OK...try this on for size. If the reason involved your official duties as Aurors, especially as Head Auror, Harry, it would be an acceptable one, wouldn't it?”

“Maybe,” They both said in unison, and Harry added, “depends on what it is.”

“Right. OK, Harry, suppose you had to leave the country on official business, something that came up, and were going to be gone for some time. You decided you really had to get married before leaving, so you could bring Ginny with you, and a nice quiet family wedding was organized on very short notice.”

“I like it so far. If anyone ever says anything, it's 'sorry, but we just didn't have time to do anything else, would have loved to have you there otherwise,' and that would be perfectly true! But what's the official business?”

“That visit to the United States we've talked about. To coordinate, see the Research Institute, meet everyone at the F.B.A., check out schools – any and all of that. The thing is, the public does  _ not _ need to know that your trip would actually start with a honeymoon, and you'd only get on with visiting the Department and all that  _ after _ you'd finished having a proper one!” 

“I like it a lot, actually!” Harry was beginning to brighten up. “Do you think you could arrange things on your end?”

“Sure – I don't have to sell it to Blackstone. Thank the stars, he's  _ been _ here, he's met you all. He'll do it. Include an invitation for him and I'll absolutely guarantee it.”

“How long would it take to set it up?”

“If I go back and pitch the idea in person...a couple of days. Week at the most.”

“That's brilliant,” said Ron, “but it doesn't do anything for me and Hermione.”

“Oh, I dunno. It might. Listen, I joked about it when we first met, but did you folks ever actually talk about having a double wedding?”

“Not really.” Harry shook his head.

Ron did too. “Oh, it might've got mentioned, but we never seriously thought about it. No reason for Harry and Ginny to have a Muggle wedding.”

“Well, if you decided you just  _ had _ to have a double wedding, after all, and then Harry had to push the date ahead...” Ron's eyes opened wide. “...and there's no telling at this point, but it's possible you and Hermione might get named to that American Liaison Team.”

“Either way,” said Ron with growing excitement.

“Or both!” agreed Harry, and they looked at each other. In a moment they were running towards the Orchard, and I decided to walk around the pond and see if I could spot the bullfrog I'd been hearing for the past few minutes.

************


	28. Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the fruits of the recent official expedition are gathered, Percy joins the conspiracy, and Jamie offers solutions for some unofficial official problems.

I never did find that bullfrog, partly because those low notes are hard to localize, but mostly because two couples came walking out of the orchard after a little while, heading for the pond, and both girls detached themselves and came straight over to where I was standing.

“You,” began Ginny, “are wonderful,” she finished after surprising me with an embrace and a kiss that made me turn pink.

“And you,” said Hermione, following the same interrupted-sentence procedure, making my coloration even deeper, and finishing with, “are definitely coming to our wedding, is that understood?”

“Yeah...sure!” I was blinking real fast.

“That's a promise, then, mate,” grinned Ron, as he put his arms around Hermione.

“And you should most certainly invite Alistair Blackstone,” added Harry with his arms full of Ginny. He smiled and kissed her hair. “The girls decided they should be the ones to thank you for setting it up. Have we got a deal, then?”

“Boy...that's a lot more fun than a handshake! You bet we do!” I had a smile on my face that was threatening to split it in two. “I'll go back and arrange it, just as soon as we've gotten into that vault in Godric's Hollow. If I can bring that money back with me, they'll all be too busy counting to raise any objections.”

Getting into that vault turned out to be both harder and easier than I thought. Harder, because it took Bill, Jamie, Kenji and Professor Flitwick (who showed up at the Ministry the morning after he got Bill's owl, eager to meet Jamie and compare techniques) two all-night sessions to make it happen; easier, because I didn't go with them. They pointed out that they needed to concentrate and weren't sure how much space they would have to work in, and Hermione and Harry's description of the state of the Bagshot house – and the smell – convinced me. It turned out that Fangboner and Joey had put their Fidelius Charm on the full basement, and when the team finally broke that charm, two closet doors moved aside and the cellar door appeared between them.

Down a rickety wooden staircase, they found a new cinder-block wall across the space, with a massive iron door set into it, and had to work a second night breaking a whole other set of curses and hexes before it would open. Inside, sure enough, they found a massive collection of golden Galleons and Franklins in boxes, and a fair amount of smaller change in bags. We got it all moved (I'm not saying how) to a secure location in London (I'm not saying where) and Percy Weasley organized a team of Wizards and Witches from the Accounting department to make an inventory.

So it was five days later when Jamie and I sat with Percy in the upstairs room at The Leakey Cauldron, drinking butterbeer and whistling at the numbers written on a piece of official Ministry parchment.

“Nice work, Percy, getting this done so fast!” I said, and meant it.

“Thanks – but it was rather fun, don't you know,” he replied. “We're going through it a second time, as a check, but I rather think these figures will hold up pretty well.”

“No worries about that,” I assured him, “but we've got to make a stab at reconciling these figures with the ones you've been digging out of the files. Even allowing for the fact that all the Franklins came from America, there's – what, almost six hundred thousand Galleons more than the records account for?”

“Five hundred eighty-one thousand, two hundred sixty-seven, fourteen Knuts and twelve Sickles,” said Percy, taking a drink. “First approximation. And I'm pretty well done with the international financial records,” he added, “unless your fellows transferred funds through Patagonia or North Korea or some other really out-of-the-way place.”

“At least some of that must have been stolen over here,” said Jamie, “and really ought to go back where it came from...if we can ever find out.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed, “but how much?”

“We may never know exactly how much, or just where it came from,” said Percy seriously. “I think the Minister and the Secretary will have to negotiate an agreement on that. I'm going to propose that whatever the Ministry ends up keeping, if we can't definitely determine the original owners, be used in a general rebuilding fund to help undo the damage Voldemort caused.”

“Hear hear!” I said, “You can count on strong American support for that! But I'd really like to take the rest of it back to Washington quickly, and I'm hoping to leave tomorrow.”

“Oh! As soon as that, then.” Percy was surprised, and tossed his head with a grin. “You Americans, always in a hurry!”

“Well, there's a good reason,” I said, and pledged them both to secrecy. I explained about the wedding dilemma, concluding with, “...and I promised to set it up as quickly as possible, once we got the money out of the vault. I figure bringing that back with me will tend to, um, give me a bit of extra leverage, if you see what I mean.”

“That ought to do it, all right,” said Jamie. “But hey, as long as we're being confidential here,” he glanced at both of us, and we nodded, “remember that honeymoon prescription we talked about, Ryan?”

“Yes indeed!” As I spoke I saw Percy beginning to look shocked, and Jamie and I burst into laughter. Boy, Jamie's quick; just one little choice of words! “No, Percy, it's not that kind of prescription!” I was bringing my laughter in for a landing. “But if you want to find out – well, there's a conspiracy afoot, and you'll have to join.”

“Swear oaths on a skull, pledge your first-born, and seal it with your own blood, that sort of thing,” offered Jamie. “Are you in?”

“Yes please!” Percy looked delighted. “Been conspiracies all round me, all my life – well, mostly from the room upstairs, I'll grant – and I so rarely ever get to join in. Love to! What are we conspiring to do? And who are we conspiring against?”

“Better say we're conspiring  _ for _ someone, not against – and it's Harry.” Jamie chimed in and explained the medical reasons for our concern, and Percy started to nod.

“I see what you're saying, and just between us, I think you're right. It was...well, it was hard on all of us, but I can't really imagine what Harry went through. Giving him a chance at some respite is a splendid idea.”

“And that's why I prescribe a honeymoon, somewhere outside of Britain where his fame won't be a problem,” Jamie finished. “Ryan and I talked this over – and of course, that's part of the conspiracy that our two couples don't need to know about! – and now, I think I may have a solution.” Before we could say anything he held up a hand. “I really don't want to say anymore about it in a public place. It involves some things our people have kept secret for a long time. In fact, aside from you, Ryan, the only people I can talk to are the members of the Weasley family, and Harry and Hermione of course. If this is official business, Ryan, it's classified beyond top secret, if you catch my drift.”

I nodded. “I'd call it very  _ unofficial _ official business.” I looked at Percy who nodded solemnly, his eyes alight.

Jamie went on, “I'm glad you're here, Percy – can you arrange to get them together, at the Burrow would be the best place, sometime soon?”

“Leave it to me,” replied Percy with a nod. “Should I call Charlie back home from Romania?”

“Oh, no need to do that. This really only affects Ron and Ginny, but Arthur and Molly should know, and there's no reason to keep it secret from any other family members who happen to be around. You can tell the others later. I know it won't go any farther.”

“Right. When do you think, then?”

“Well, the sooner you all know, the sooner they can make plans.”

And that's why I was at the Burrow the following evening, with Jamie, chasing the last bits of gravy around my plate with a bit of bread after one of Molly's really excellent chicken dinners. Percy and George were there, but Bill and Charlie were absent.

“Lovely, Molly dear,” said Arthur, “delicious as always.” He was backed up by a chorus that included at least one burp. “Let's have coffee in the front room, shall we? Ryan has something important to tell us, I understand.” We relocated, after Molly made a pot of coffee and one of tea, and they had been suitably distributed and adulterated. Everyone sat down, got comfortable, and looked at me.

“Well, there is something important you should know,” I said, “but I have no idea what it is. This is Jamie's show.” I turned to Jamie and quoted an old movie. “OK, kid, you're on. You're going out there an unknown, but you're going to come back a star!”

Jamie laughed and retorted, “Rubbish! One of the many handy phrases I'm picking up over here. All right. Here's what's happening. I've been keeping my family, especially my Grandfather, up on what I've been doing over here, and Grandfather's been especially interested in the warriors who defeated the Evil One. When he heard that you four--” he gestured at the two couples, sitting on the couch with the girls in the middle, “--are going to get married, he apparently got in touch with some of his personal network. I've never known how extensive that is, but I'm sure it goes a lot further than anyone realizes. He let me know that something was up, and when I got back from Godric's Hollow, I found a package waiting for me.”

From his robes, he pulled a Federal Express international envelope. I don't know if the Muggles who founded FedEx are aware that there's a Wizarding section in their company; I think it was developed by some employees. It's expensive, but packages go long distances a lot faster than a bird can fly, and at the destination end are somehow extracted from the stream and sent on by regular owl delivery. Don't know how they work it. Jamie set the envelope on the floor, pulled out his wand and tapped it, and immediately it expanded to a large box about two feet on a side. He tapped it again, a strip ripped itself off, and the flaps opened.

Inside, the packing material was green, and fragrant. “Ti leaves,” he said. “Not tea like you drink, this is spelled 't-i' – a tropical plant with some medicinal properties, and said to bring good luck.” He reached down in, felt around for a moment, and extracted a large, lustrous conch shell. “Just as I suspected. Hold this for me a moment, would you?” he said happily, handing the shell to Ginny and Hermione. Rummaging further in the box, he came up with several other smaller sea shells (very nice ones, beautifully colored), two big green coconuts, and a large cream-colored envelope, made of thick, expensive-looking paper. On the front were two eagles, embossed, and on the back it was sealed with green wax molded in the shape of an octopus.

Jamie tapped the octopus with his wand, and it became a bird, took off, and flew three times around his head before disappearing in a puff of green smoke. He opened the envelope, and found several pages. He held one up and it was covered with writing in blue ink...and in Hawaiian. “Let me try something,” he said, and passed his wand down the first page. “That's better! Thank you, Grandfather.” He read the page, and looked up. “This...is an invitation. A very special one. But we must do things in the proper order, and the first thing to do is...” he held out his hand and Ginny handed him back the conch shell. “...sound the pu.”

“The what? That sounds like my sort of business.”

“No, George,” laughed Jamie, “see the hole here in the conch shell? It's been made into a trumpet, and the Hawaiian word for it is 'pu.' These folks may or may not be aware of the English language connotations, and my advice is: don't bring it up. All right, let's see if I can do this.” He inhaled a full lungful, then put his lips to the shell. A long, low note came forth and got louder, and after ten or fifteen seconds (just as he was running out of breath) a swirl of something – something gossamer-thin, growing, moving, darkening from a pure white as flashes of color appeared – came out of the hole in the other end of the shell. Jamie set the shell down on the coffee table and stood back.

The apparition solidified (or appeared to) into a large man, tall and hefty, with golden-brown skin, wearing a truly astonishing costume. Sandals, and a patterned kilt or breech-clout – it was impossible to tell because over all he had a yellow cloak with an angular pattern in red and white, several necklaces of shells and stones beneath a strong face, and on top of his head a helmet, red with patterns of black, that ended in a high curving crest coming from back to front. He was there in perfect solid-looking clarity, and as I looked closer I saw the most amazing part: his cloak, and his helmet, were made of feathers. Thousands upon thousands of tiny feathers.

He faced the group on the sofa, and appeared to look them right in the eye. When he spoke, his voice was deep and melodious, and nobody understood a word he said except when he mentioned “Mr. and Mrs. Harry Potter” and “Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Weasley.” His tone was authoritative, but friendly, and none of the small gestures he made were anything but reassuring. It took him several minutes to finish his speech; at the end, he spread his arms in a welcoming way, then put his palms together, said something, nodded, and suddenly shrank, becoming a large ocean wave which broke spectacularly over the couch without getting anything even damp, and dissipated like smoke. We all looked at Jamie.

“Nope. I didn't understand it either. But it's all in this letter.” He scanned the pages, moving his wand down as he went. Our eyes didn't leave him, and finally he looked up and fixed his gaze on the group on the couch. “Harry, Ron, Ginny, Hermione...how would you like to have a month – or more, if you like, it says here – in a lovely safe place where you can have complete privacy, or company if you like, where nobody knows or cares about your being famous, and where you won't have to deal with Muggles unless you want to? And before you answer, it won't cost you a poke – I mean, a sickle.”

The four of them looked at each other in several combinations, and finally Harry spoke for them all. “It sounds  _ wonderful _ ...is it where I think it is?”

“If you're thinking it's in Hawaii, it is.” Jamie was grinning, and looking very impressed at the same time. “But not just Hawaii. You've been invited to stay on Halekahuna, the Invisible Isle.”

“Halekahuna? I thought there were eight Hawaiian islands – Hawaii, Oahu, Maui, Kauai, Molokai, Lanai, Niihau, and Kahoolawe. Are you saying there's another one?”

“Gold star in geography!” said Jamie, but nobody else looked very impressed; they're used to Hermione by now. “And yes, there is. It's the home of the Hawaiian Wizards, the Kahunas. They made it an invisible, and unplottable, refuge a long time ago – right after Captain Cook showed up, I think. Incidentally, 'Halekahuna' isn't the island's actual name; only the Kahunas know that. It's just a Hawaiian word that means “home of the Kahunas,” and that's what it's called by the very few outside people who know it exists. Like Niihau, only Hawaiians are allowed on Halekahuna, and that's why this invitation is so amazing. As far as I know, the only other haole – that's their word for Caucasians – who's ever been there was Father Damien. If there were any others, they didn't talk about it.”

“Who's Father Damien?” asked Harry.

Hermione, of course, knew the answer. “He's a Catholic priest who's famous for treating the lepers on Molokai when no one else would.”

“So...we're getting this invitation because I'm famous?”

“No!” Jamie held up both hands. “Don't even think that. Not with these people. They couldn't care less about who's famous in the haole world. You're getting this invitation, all of you, because in their eyes, you've earned it. My Grandfather didn't ask for this, it was all their idea, once they heard you Warriors were getting married.” He turned to the letter. “Look, here's what they are offering: each couple will have their own house, off by itself, but only a few minutes' walk from each other, or from their village, where you will be welcome anytime. You can get food and supplies in their market, but there's no money on the island and you can't pay for anything. So you can be private, or visit each other, or enjoy their village – they're really nice people, and I've always heard they're  _ amazing _ Wizards.” He turned to the next page. “And you can visit the other islands anytime you like; they'll show you where to Disapparate to, and how to get back. You really ought to do some of that, too. There's a lot of Muggles, but there are Wizards too, and Hawaii has some incredibly cool places to visit.”

“Yes indeed,” I chimed in, “the beaches, the mountains, and the rain forest, and you won't want to miss the volcano. It's still erupting, last I heard.”

“There's a volcano? And it's erupting? That sounds  _ dangerous _ .” Ginny sounded worried.

“It's on Hawaii – the Big Island,” explained Jamie, “and Ryan's right, it's been erupting for ten years or more, I think.”

“It's safe enough; tourists come from all over the world,” I added. “It's a National Park.”

“Yeah...Hawaii's in the United States, in'it?” Ron seemed a little dubious. Wizarding schools don't teach geography for some reason; I had it in fourth grade.

“Yes, it's our fiftieth state,” I contributed. “But I'm not so sure about Halekahuna, now that I've found out about it.”

“The Kahunas don't recognize the US Government,” said Jamie seriously, “and since their island doesn't appear on US Government maps, I guess they don't have to. All the other islands are American, though, and when you visit them you'll just be Muggle tourists.”

“What about passports and things?” asked Hermione. “If we just sort of appear, without going through customs, won't that be a problem?”

“No worries. If you are noticed by the authorities for some reason, you will need valid passports, and to be listed in the Muggle State Department computer files as having come through customs with a visa and all that, but I think I know someone who can make that happen,” I said modestly, breathing on my fingernails and polishing them on the front of my robes. “Here – tell you what – let's look at Hawaii.” It only took me a couple of minutes to get my computer set up and connected. I opened up one of about a thousand (it looked like) Hawaiian tourist websites, and Harry, who was getting good at web-surfing, got out his wand and took over. The sound of a band with a steel guitar lead filled the room with  _ I Want To Go Back To My Little Grass Shack In Kealakokua Hawaii _ , images of Diamond Head, surf rolling in on beaches, and girls in grass skirts filled the display. Everyone studied it intently.

After a couple of minutes I caught Percy's eye, and we stepped into the kitchen, and I shook his hand. “Nice work, Percy! Telling them I was the one who had something to announce was a great move. I'll conspire with you anytime.”

“It was fun,” he grinned. “And what an invitation! They'll go for it, never fear, it's simply perfect. No wonder Jamie wanted to announce it in private. These Kahunas sound quite formidable. And say, Ryan, there's something else...”

“Yes?”

“Well, if you remember, we had a bit of a set-to about that, um, film clip thing, up in Kingsley's office?”

“Oh yeah. I am sorry about that, Perce.”

“And you'll remember I made some noises about eventually...retaliating, shall we say?”

“I sure do. I haven't had a good night's sleep since.” I said it with a straight face, and Percy obviously bought it. He's such a wide-open target; it's easy to see why Fred and George couldn't resist driving him up the wall.

“Well, please forget it. I was a bit miffed at the time, but, well, after all you've done, and now this – just wanted to say, I take it all back.” When all is said and done, Percy's a Weasley, and Weasleys are good people. I thanked him and we shook on it.

Back in the front room, everyone was excited, and Jamie was explaining that the other sea shells in the box were portkeys (Trans-Atlantic and Trans-Pacific both, which I didn't know was possible) which would activate after the wedding and take them directly to the island.

“Brilliant!” said Ron, turning one of the shells over in his hand. “But, ahh, one thing...”

“Yes?” I prompted, wondering if he'd found something else to worry about.

“What are the coconuts for?”

“To eat,” said Jamie, “but not now. Green like this, they're fresh and young, not like the old hard brown coconuts you see in the market. And they'll stay that way, I'm sure; the preservative spell will break when you open them. After the wedding, when you get ready to leave, each couple should share the milk from one of them, and eat some of the coconut meat. At this stage it's sweet, and very tender. But the Kahunas have put a special charm on these two. They'll help you through the portkey experience – you'll be going halfway around the world! – so you'll feel fresh and rested when you arrive.”

*************


	29. Convocation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan goes back to Washington to prepare and goes shopping with Mrs. Blackstone. Then, back in Britain again, the guests gather for the wedding.

The next day, I TAPKey'd back to Washington, with four people (two Wizards and two Witches) from the Ministry's financial section bringing along the boxes of money. Percy headed the delegation, and once they got over their astonishment at the amount of the treasure, our Department people welcomed them with open arms. Blackstone came down and supervised as the money was moved to an underground vault, and insisted that the Britishers have a tour of the Department, meet all the financial people, and stay for lunch.

After they left, Blackstone wanted to hear the story of our adventures in Godric's Hollow first hand. Then I had the fun of astonishing the Admiral when I told him about the Kahunas' invitation. He had heard of Halekahuna but never expected to go there or meet anyone who had, except two Hawaiian Wizards he knew from the Navy. I gave him the whole picture and he immediately enlisted in the conspiracy, rubbing his hands and grinning.

“All right, then, let's see: we need to make this as official as possible. You say Kingsley Shacklebolt is in the picture?”

“Yes sir! He got behind it right away and started pushing. He's perfectly fine with having all four of them gone for a couple of months.”  
“Good! And – well, I suppose they're waiting to hear from us before they actually set the date?”

“That's right, and Harry asked me to tell you that you and Mrs. Blackstone are invited, if you can get away.”

“Wonderful! That'll make me a hero with Betty. Ever since I got back and told her about these folks, she's been after me to find an excuse to take her over so she can meet them.” He nodded with satisfaction, and pointed his wand at one of the three Kentucky Cardinals perched on a potted tree in the corner. It flew to the desk and he told it, “Lieutenant Braithwaite, come in and take a letter.” It zoomed out through an open transom which hadn't been there when I came in, and in about ten seconds there was a knock on the door.

“Come in!”

A young officer entered with a pad, nodded at me, and sat down, with pen poised. The Admiral began – well, let me just insert a copy of the letter in its final form:

> DATE: 17 June 1998
> 
> FROM: Alistair Blackstone, Secretary of Magic
> 
> TO: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic
> 
> SUBJECT: International Cooperation
> 
> Dear Kingsley,
> 
> After my recent visit to the United Kingdom, I have come to regard the prospects for cooperation and coordination between our two organizations as extremely important, and believe we must take concrete steps to move the process forward as quickly as possible. It is particularly important to begin making real progress in two areas, namely Magical Law Enforcement and Magical Education. In each case, the next step will be to have some of your people visit the United States, meet their opposite numbers, and become familiar with our facilities.
> 
> If it meets with your approval, the United States Department of Magic hereby extends an invitation to your new Head Auror, Harry Potter, to come over as soon as can be arranged. It would be a very good idea if he could be accompanied by Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, as the three of them have unparalleled experience with the recent struggle against Tom Riddle, the Wizard who called himself Lord Voldemort, and who was the source of so many of our problems here as he was for you and your people. I would anticipate that they would take a month, perhaps more, to complete this initial mission.
> 
> In the area of Magical Education, a similar invitation is hereby extended to the Headmistress of Hogwarts, Professor Minerva McGonagall, and any members of the faculty she cares to designate, if they can be spared for at least two or three weeks. In addition, it would be useful if at least one student, from one of the upper classes, could come over. Potter, Granger and Weasley are recent students, but their focus will be in another area, and it will be very valuable to have the student viewpoint when we consider ideas and methods for implementing Educational cooperation.
> 
> Just at present, workmen are busy repairing the damage to the upper floors of the Department, and from our point of view it would be best to wait a little, just until they have finished and our top administration has moved into its permanent quarters. This should take no more than a couple of weeks, so the British visitors will be welcome on, or anytime after, August 1 st . 
> 
> That said, I should like to emphasize once again the advantages to both of us if these visits can be made as soon as possible. Admiral Lord Nelson famously said, “lose not an hour,” and he was absolutely right.
> 
> I think it would be best if I came over to Britain in a week or so, to confer with you and your people and firm up the arrangements we've discussed.
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts as soon as possible.
> 
> Sincerely yours,
> 
> Alistair Blackstone, SOM, USDOM.
> 
> P.S. - When I come over next I'm hoping to bring my wife Betty, who is a Witch of great power and charm, and who consistently comes up with excellent ideas. You'll like her. AB

That went out on Wemail, and a hardcopy followed so there would be a paper trail in the files, on the principle that if it was available, it wouldn't be needed. The short notice meant we all had a lot of preparations to make. Blackstone's letter got a reply the very next day, happily backing the idea of an urgent mission for Harry and adding Ron and Hermione to the team. Blackstone called me in when it arrived, and actually gave me a high-five when he read it! That was reassuring, because although the scheme had been my idea, the four most concerned, and everybody else including the Powers That Be, had instantly jumped on it. I was fervently glad to subside into the background, and was keeping my fingers crossed and hoping real hard it would all work out. I would have crossed my toes too, but that makes it real hard to walk.

I was sitting in Blackstone's temporary office on the 52nd floor of the Secretariat, present both as the guy who started this ball rolling, and in my official capacity, which I was still getting used to. After only about four months in the Department of Magic, it still seemed somewhat unreal that when the workwizards finished rebuilding the top three floors of the cylindrical tower, I would have an office only one floor down from the Secretary's, with a door inscribed:

**Ryan Jenkins**

**Permanent Liaison to the United Kingdom**

**for Magical Law Enforcement**

The Secretary sat back, looked at me, and grinned. “Good for Kingsley! He and I have been working so well together. It's damned lucky that the Brits got him to take over their Ministry...and actually, when you think about it, it's lucky that bomb blew you into sick bay and blew Kingsley and I out of our chairs. Mind you, I'd rather have had that happen without casualties, but getting the two of us together turned out to be one of the best things that's happened since Tom Riddle went down. We could never have pulled _this_ off without that personal relationship. This is going to be fun!” He rubbed his hands and laughed, pointing at me. “And if you ever get tired of being an Auror, you could make a living as a Wedding Planner!”

“Well, I really don't have a yenta do that.” Once in awhile I think of things in time.

Blackstone made a face and clapped a hand to his brow, shaking his head; apparently he did know some Yiddish. “Back in sailing-ship days I could have had you keelhauled for that,” he observed wistfully. “Instead, I'm just going to give you to Betty,” he said with satisfaction, and I wondered what was in store for me. “We're going to need to prepare for the festivities right away, but I can't take time off, and Betty doesn't know these people yet. When we get the word on the actual date, Kingsley and I will schedule a meeting that'll put the three of us over there at the right time, but that might be only a week from now. So you and she will see to it that we're packed and ready. Have you got any ideas on what might make a good wedding present?”

I think he could tell that I didn't, from the way my face went blank and my mouth hung open. I blew out a bunch of air and confirmed that impression. “I hadn't thought about it.”

“Do so. But do it with Betty. You haven't met her yet,” he said with a smile. “She's Navy too. We met when we were serving on the Enterprise, and she retired when our kids started to come along. I think you'll get along fine, as long as you do what I do.” I looked the question, with enough eagerness that he chuckled. “Just remember that she's in charge. Hey, I'm only an Admiral – _she_ was a _Bosun_!”

Not being a veteran of the United States (Muggle) Navy, I looked that up later. A Bosun (the short form of “Boatswain”) is the highest-ranking crew member who isn't an officer. A high-ranking non-com like that (“warrant officer” in NavSpeak) is someone who's had years to work their way up, knows everything there is to know about the ship (and the Navy), and is vastly more experienced than any wet-behind-the-ears Academy graduate. Even the Captain listens when the Bosun gives advice. The equivalent in other services is a grizzled old sergeant with stripes and hash marks going all the way up both sleeves and down the back, the kind who can induce fear and instant obedience in anyone with just a look, and uses language capable of blistering the paint on a boiler.

But Betty Blackstone is anything but grizzled. She's about five inches shorter than her husband, sort of solid and compact – not svelte, but not fat either. Not at all. She moves like an athlete – which she is; Alistair mentioned that she's won prizes in three different martial arts, and still teaches two of them. If you've ever met a Bosun, this is probably going to sound kind of weird, but she's sweet. When we were introduced, later that afternoon in the Secretary's office, I started to shake hands but she effortlessly pulled me into a hug, looked up and kissed me on the chin, and said “So you're Ryan! Alistair has told me a lot about you!” I tried to grin, and failed so spectacularly they both laughed. And when I called her ma'm, she stopped me with a look. “I appreciate the courtesy, Ryan, but I'm 'Betty' to my friends, and you're going to be one.” It was a simple statement of fact, in the same tone of voice she might have used for “it's starting to rain.”

We talked about wedding presents. I think they ought to be practical things. Who wants a little doodad that'll end up being packed away – or worse, have to be dusted? I had only given one wedding present at that point, to a couple of my classmates who married while I was in Auror training. It was a frying pan – an expensive model, stainless steel, with a real thick bottom, even-heat charm, and a lid that became transparent with a tap of your wand. When I saw them next, months later, they were glad to see me and immediately mentioned it was the most useful gift they'd gotten; it worked great and they used it every day. So I chalked it up as a success. Betty thought that might be a good idea for me, and mentioned a new line of Wizarding cookware with lids that levitated when approached with a spoon. But when we went to a shop that sold magical cookware, we found out they'd stopped carrying those because they had a problem. When you approached it holding a spoon or some other kitchen utensil, the lid lifted about three feet in the air. It hovered there until you took the spoon out, and then came back down. Apparently the spell worked a little too well, or maybe a little too quickly. There were several reports of smashed fingers, broken noses, and bruised chins – at least three people had been knocked cold – and one user complained her pet weasel had been decapitated. I'm not sure I believe that one, though. Maybe a gecko or a ferret, but a weasel?

So I spent most of the next week shopping with Betty. It was a lot like shopping with my Mom, except that Betty treated me like an adult, we were on a first-name basis, and Mom never gave me the impression that she could disassemble me with one hand.

On the first day, Betty liked the new green robes I'd brought back from Britain, but she turned her nose up at the old comfortable ones from school days I wore the second day. She has a real no-nonsense approach to side-along Apparition, and before I knew it we were walking into a very upscale Wizarding tailor shop on K Street I'd never heard of called MacGuiness & Bunter. Mr. Angus MacGuiness, impeccably turned out in dark grey robes with a faint maroon pinstripe, greeted me with an imperious eye and a Scots accent thick enough to spread on scones – but when he saw Betty, the accent disappeared. Seems he and Betty were schoolmates, and he was really from South Carolina. He was also a nice man, once we got past the front he put up for high-powered clients, and a very good tailor indeed. An hour later, after a magical measuring tape had crawled over my entire body and Betty and MacGuiness had discussed fabrics and styles in great detail (asking my opinion when they got down to two choices), I had ordered three new sets of daily-wear robes and a formal outfit as well. When I got the paperwork and looked at the prices, Betty seemed to sense that I was concerned about the cost. Maybe it was my sharp intake of breath, or the faint-voiced stutter when I asked if they took credit cards.

“Don't worry about the bill, dear. The Department will take care of it.”

“Uhh...they didn't say anything about a clothing allowance...”

“Didn't they? Well, what with all the confusion recently, I suppose that's understandable, but I'll just have a word with Alistair. You need these for your work, and after all, the Navy always issued our uniforms. I'm sure it'll be all right.” She was ladylike, and even motherly, but somehow I had no more inclination to doubt her than any Apprentice Seaman on the USS Enterprise would have. I don't know how she does it.

Betty and I had a lot of time to talk, and she quizzed me very efficiently about our British friends. Alistair had told her a lot, of course, but I had more detail on the whole struggle against Tom Riddle, the so-called Lord Voldemort. The first time I heard Betty in full Bosun mode was when I told her what I'd learned about Harry's childhood. She made a comment about his Uncle Vernon Dursley of which I can only print the first two words, “Why, that...”

After thirty or forty seconds she hadn't repeated herself once, and was really getting up to speed, but then she shut herself up by main force, shook her head, and noticed that my eyes had widened to their maximum extent. Her eyes twinkled, and she said “Sorry about the language, Ryan.”

“It's all right, I know all the words, I was a boy scout.” We laughed. “Besides, Shakespeare couldn't have said it better.”

“Oh yes he could. He would have taken ten minutes, and made it rhyme!”

Finding very special wedding gifts for two very special couples was harder than anything I'd done since leaving school. Betty groused about Alistair's attitude, and I have to admit his suggestions (according to her) were not very helpful. Harry and Ron couldn't afford the upkeep on a destroyer, even if they'd had a place to put it. Although on reflection, I wouldn't bet against Alistair's ability to come up with one if it were really wanted. After three days of trudging around to stores (both Wizarding and Muggle), I finally suggested we ask Kingsley via Wemail if he had any ideas about what people were doing for gifts.

Betty stopped in her tracks. “Of course. Sheer genius. Why Alistair couldn't have – well, never mind.” So I sent off the message, and that evening found a reply in my inbox – from Percy Weasley:

“ _Hello Ryan, Percy here. I have a Wemail account now! The Minister sent your inquiry on to me, and I can well understand your dilemma. We're all having a similar problem. Harry has a house, of course, and it's furnished, but we don't know what is lacking. Ron and Hermione will be looking for a place after they get back, and will probably need most everything, but we don't know what her parents may have stored up for her._

_“George said something about hundred-galleon gift certificates for the joke shop, but that's not my idea of a proper wedding present. Charlie sent an owl, and Mum wrote back telling him he was absolutely not to give anyone a dragon, even a baby one. Bill says he and Fleur have picked out gifts, but won't tell me what they are. Mum and Dad are so busy preparing for the event that they've had no time to shop. I haven't either, but more to the point, I haven't a clue._

_“As of last night, though, there's been a good deal of talk about holding a sort of 'welcome home' reception when they all return, and giving gifts at that point. Hermione is annoyed that none of the stores in Diagon Alley have something called a 'registry,' which is a Muggle invention. Apparently betrothed couples publicly list things they want or need, and wedding guests choose from that. It does sound rather sensible, but sort of takes some of the fun out of the whole business, don't you think?_

_“At any rate, the reception idea looks very likely. A definite decision may be taken tonight, and I will let you know. It will have to be decided very soon, because the wedding is set for Tuesday, June 30. Has anyone told you? The date was just agreed last night. Sorry I couldn't offer more help, but at least now you know what I know, and naturally I'll keep you informed if anything should change._

“ _With expressions of high regard and warm friendship,_

“ _I beg to remain_

“ _Vy sincerely yours,_

“ _Percy Weasley_ ”

I guess pomposity is a habit, like biting your nails. If you want to get me to beg, you'd have to kidnap me first. And even then – but maybe it's just an old form. I shouldn't be too hard on Percy, he's smart, he means well, and most of all he's a Weasley. But of course his reply wasn't much help. After firmly putting the kibosh on Alistair's enthusiasm for the his-and-her submarines in the Hammacher Schlemmer catalog, Betty finally decided it would be best to wait for the welcome-home reception, and I went along with the idea, feeling relieved.

When we got to Britain, we found handwritten invitations waiting for us in our rooms at Claridge's Wizarding. They said that the ceremony had been set for the early evening, to be followed by a meal they called a “wedding breakfast” and dancing, so that the newlyweds wouldn't arrive in Hawaii in the middle of the night. They were going to travel by the Hawiians' special Portkeys, and there was a fourteen-hour difference in time zones.

One thing I was worried about turned out to be absolutely no problem at all. Hermione Weasley's parents are really very nice people. I'm still not sure if it should be “Dr. & Mrs.” or “Dr. & Dr.,” because they're both dentists, but they're kind, intelligent people, and they had a lot of fun with us all, even if they are Muggles and their heads were still spinning from all that had happened recently.

The wedding ceremony was beautiful, and came off without a hitch in spite of the fact that it had been put together in great haste. It was a little unusual, because the grooms were acting as each others' Best Man, the brides were serving as each others' Maids (or Matrons, we never did figure that out) of Honor, and they didn't have any bridesmaids, groomsmen, or ringbearers (because that way nobody got disappointed by not being asked). It's probably just as well that the arrangements were made so quickly, because Arthur Weasley went all out, and if he'd had more time he might have spent himself deep into debt.

It was late in the afternoon on June 30 that the three of us climbed out of the newly-swept and squeaky-clean fireplace at The Burrow. I was very glad I had my new dark-blue formal robes, because Betty was wearing a beautiful, sweeping set of robes in sky blue, and Alistair decided to wear his full-dress uniform, which I hadn't seen before. It was a blinding white outfit with an amazing amount of gold trim here and there, and a chestful of medals and medal ribbons underneath his gold fouled-anchor Navy clasp, with the crossed wands only a Wizard or a Witch can see. I brought up the rear, and found Alistair introducing Betty to Arthur and Molly Weasley, who were also dressed in their best. Molly was looking kinda strained around the edges, somehow, and she and Betty seemed to make an immediate bond.

After warm greetings from both, they told us that the ceremony would be delayed about half an hour. It seems that the four principals had decided to play a quick round of Quidditch after breakfast that morning – just the four of them, boys against the girls – and at the end of a boisterous match (which the girls won, 157-12, after Ginny caught the Snitch) Ron had somehow managed to collide with a tree and break his arm. Fortunately, Madam Pomfrey had arrived with the Hogwarts contingent, and she was upstairs repairing the bone. She came downstairs as we were talking, wearing a rather old-fashioned-looking set of deep blue and chartreuse dress robes and a blue hat covered with gold embroidery, and smiled as she joined us.

“He'll do now, they're getting dressed,” she said, adding “and isn't it a lucky thing that Gilderoy Lockhart isn't here! If I had to regrow his bones like I did Harry's, it'd take all night!” We all laughed, then she looked at Betty. “Oh, I'm sorry, but you wouldn't know about him...”

“Actually, I do,” Betty reassured her. “Alistair told me, he heard the story from Harry. I thought that man sounded like he was born to serve as an object lesson.” That got another laugh, and McGonagall, her eyes twinkling, added,

“You know, my dear, it could be that you're exactly right.”

We went outside, where a great big pastel-purple silk (I think) tent with a very high peak covered most of the backyard, which had been transformed into a lovely sort of chapel, with flowers and greenery everywhere. Most of the guests had already arrived, and it wasn't a large crowd. Alistair went round and introduced Betty to everyone. All of Harry's friends from the Ministry had been quietly tipped off by Kingsley, who had brought his wife, a tall, elegant Witch; he was dressed in purple trimmed with gold, and she was in gold robes trimmed in purple. Everyone from the Auror office was there, including Abner Proudfoot (and his wife, a plump Witch in rose-colored robes), Jenny Killick, Lobelia Murdle, Jimmy Weston-Boyce, and Elliot Witherspoon. I wondered who was holding down the fort, and asked Elliot, a pony-tailed Auror dressed in deep red robes with electric-blue trim.

“No worries,” he told me cheerfully. “We told a couple of fellows from the Misuse of Magic office that we all had to be out on a case, and they're sitting in the office. They've instructions to send an owl or a Patronus if anything really serious should come up.”

Jamie Two-Eagles Cogburn and Caractacus “Cracks” Conway were there from St. Mungo's. Blackstone wanted to keep the American presence small, but after the amazing events at Godric's Hollow, Kenji Sakai was definitely on the list. He's as American as apple pie (or Minnesota lake trout, that being where he's from) but his formal outfit turned out to be Japanese – a beautiful dark-green kimono with a red-and-yellow dragon embroidered all around it – with two exceptions, he told me later: he didn't have the traditional hairdo, and he swapped those odd wooden clogs for shiny black Western-style shoes. Neville Longbottom was there, with a little old Witch wearing pale pink robes, a green hat with a stuffed vulture on it, and carrying a large red handbag, who he introduced as his “Gran,” and who smiled and took our hands. When she came to me, she took my hand in both of hers, squeezed, and said, “So you're the young American who's been such a whirlwind. My grandson told me about you. He says you're a fighter. Good on you.”

Neville also introduced us to two other people we hadn't met before, Luna Lovegood (a very blonde Hogwarts classmate) and her father, Xenophilus Lovegood, both dressed in bright yellow robes. Apparently, they live nearby. They were both very pleasant, but seemed to be carrying around their own  _Confundus_ bubble, as they kept making the most matter-of-fact references to things I didn't understand. Had I been on my own I think I might have been out of my depth, but fortunately I just had to smile and nod when Alistair or Betty said something; they obviously had lots of experience with all kinds of Wizards and Witches, and as we all know, there sure are all kinds.

Hogwarts had sent a fair-sized group, led by Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, tall and splendid in deep purple and silver. Hagrid was there, wearing – believe it or not – a Muggle-style suit, a light brown checked affair of some hairy-looking fabric (wool from terrified sheep?), capped off with a pink-polka-dotted bow tie in the most astonishing (not to say atrocious) shade of puce. He was a fair-sized group all by himself. Professors Slughorn, Sprout, and Flitwick were there as heads of Houses, Professor (or should I say Coach?) Sprout had come along, and of course Madam Pomfrey.

Weasleys were everywhere, and I finally met Fleur, Bill's wife. She is an extraordinarily beautiful Witch with silvery-blonde hair and amazing eyes, I think they were dark blue. I was getting drawn into them when I heard Alistair mutter to Betty “...part Veela, you know...” and somehow pulled myself up short. She's very nice, but I've heard about those siren-women. It was only later that I realized she and Bill were entirely into each other, in the nicest way; the attraction I'd felt was just something she did without thinking, like breathing.

Then we were introduced to Walter and Anne Granger, who were clearly having a most memorable time. As the only Muggle guests, they were bemused and amazed by the various Magical touches, like the heatless candles floating above, the self-refilling punchbowl at the back, and the way the spindly little golden chairs didn't collapse into splinters underneath Hagrid. But beyond that, it hadn't been very long since they'd had their memories restored: Hermione had wiped their minds of all traces of her and the Wizarding world, implanted false memories with false identities, and sent them off to Australia for safety when Voldemort took power. So they were still getting used to remembering that they had a daughter, and that Magic is real, as well as coming to grips with the fact that their only daughter was getting married.

“We named her after Anne's grandfather, Herman Gardner,” Walter Granger was saying. “He won the Victoria Cross in the Second World War – posthumously, I'm afraid.” The Blackstones seemed to stiffen to Attention, and so did I – I knew he was referring to the highest British Muggle decoration, their equivalent of our Congressional Medal of Honor (for Muggles) or Franklin Medal of Honor (for Wizards).

“So many V.C.'s were given that way,” said Alistair softly.

“Yes indeed,” agreed Walter solemnly, and then he smiled. “We had the name picked out for a boy, of course, but when we learned Anne couldn't – that is, when we found out our little girl was going to be our one and only child, we gave it to her...in feminine form, that is, as close as we could get.”

“You must be really proud of her,” I couldn't help saying. “She's incredibly smart. I'm told she was the best student in her class.”

“Yes, so we've been hearing from the Headmistress and the other teachers,” agreed Walter, fondly. “We certainly are proud of her, more than I can say.”

“In spite of her tendency to be a little know-it-all,” put in Anne Granger with a smile. “She's been a show-off since she was in her crib. I tried to tell her she'd never have a boyfriend that way. Men do like to feel superior, don't they?”

Betty and Anne grinned at each other, and Betty started to say something, but just at that moment there was a chime, and Arthur's voice, Magically amplified, said,

“Hello everyone, would you please take your seats? We're ready to begin now.”

**************


	30. Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A double wedding, a fabulous party, and an emotional farewell.

As I said, the ceremony went off beautifully. Harry and Ron, dressed in black formal robes, took their places. Ron's outfit looked brand new, and was trimmed in gold; Harry's was trimmed in red. The girls wore gorgeous silvery-white robes; Hermione's was trimmed in red and Ginny's in gold, so both couples were wearing their House colors when they stood together. The brides both carried bouquets of mixed red and golden-yellow roses, too; when the subject came up, Betty Blackstone impressed Professor Sprout, and surprised me, by knowing that red roses symbolize love, yellow roses stand for friendship, and all roses mean happiness and joy. How that figures in a Bosun's education, I don't know.

Professor Flitwick, seated on the aisle, made flower petals appear under their feet as Arthur and Walter escorted their daughters down the aisle, and at the proper moment, placed their hands in the hands of their husbands-to-be. Then, as if they'd rehearsed it, both fathers leaned over and kissed their daughters on the forehead, straightened up, and went and sat down by their wives. (It wasn't rehearsed, or even discussed. Afterwards they both expressed surprise that the impulse had come to them at the same moment. I think they were the only ones who felt surprised, though.)

When the rings had been exchanged, there was an unexpected moment: Hermione reached up and took off the tiara she was wearing. It was a lovely piece of worked silver, set with jewels. She reached over and placed it on Ginny's head, adjusting it to sit just so. I guess I must have looked surprised, because George, who was sitting next to me, glanced over, grinned, and explained in a prison-yard whisper out of the side of his mouth:

“That's old Aunt Muriel's tiara. There's only the one, so the girls decided Hermione would wear it going up the aisle and Ginny coming back down. Thank the stars we've only got the tiara this time, and not Aunt Muriel! She's a hundred eight, and never stops talking. Or anything, really. But she's loaded, absolutely loaded, so we have to let her come and insult everyone. Dad went over to see her in person, and told us she was just wild that she couldn't come on such short notice. If that's the only thing your suggestion had accomplished, Ryan, we'd still be in your debt forever.”

He was shushed by a wet glower from Molly. Wet, because she and Anne Granger were sitting next to each other and both crying. I looked around surreptitiously, and saw that Betty Blackstone, Fleur Weasley, and the ladies in the Hogwarts group were all dripping too. Even Professor Slughorn was dabbing at his eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. It's a curious phenomenon. I think it comes under the heading of Inevitable Natural Occurrences, like bread always falling butter-side-down, or the sunset that was beginning to take shape and color outside the tent.

I somehow never actually met the Wizard who conducted the ceremony. He was a short fellow, balding on top, with fluffy white hair and a white beard. He had a tenor voice and a tendency to be sort of formally up-and-down as he recited, but he seemed pleasant and smiled a lot. He left, I think, right after the ceremony: I didn't see him during the festivities afterwards.

There was a huge heart-shaped cluster of golden balloons right over the two couples, and as the ceremony finished and they kissed, George whispered “Watch this!” and the balloons burst into tiny golden bells which rang in harmony, and a flock of gorgeous little multicolored birds who flew around the tent, singing and trailing long feathers. Everyone stood up and applauded and both grooms  were appropriately red in the face as they walked back through the crowd. The sunset was just at its peak, a rainbow of color on fluffy clouds. 

Arthur then waved his wand and the chairs re-arranged themselves around a series of round tables with matching purple-silk tablecloths which seemed to sprout from the floor. They were set around the sides of the tent, leaving a pretty big oval-shaped space in the center. He nodded at me, I flicked my wand, and music began.

Booking a decent live band on short notice is never easy, and they were worried musicians might spill the beans about the wedding, according to a Wemail I'd gotten a week earlier. The answer was simple enough and quickly agreed: recordings – and Percy's Wemail fairly overflowed with gratitude when I volunteered to take care of it. I had slipped in that morning and set up my computer for playback, placing transducers throughout the big tent – which, by the way, Arthur kept calling the “marquee” which to me means the reader-board above the front of a movie theatre. I'd worked out a list of songs after some more Wemails, and then hurried conferences with several Weasleys.

When I flicked my wand, an orchestra began. I think people were surprised by the opening bars of  _La Marseillaise_ (Fleur Weasley looked startled), but it did get their attention, and I knew my lead-off choice was kind of risky. I was actually nervous about it, but when the Beatles began to sing,  _“Love, love, love...”_ everybody grinned, and the brides pulled their husbands down for a kiss. I felt better. In the middle of the second chorus, Minerva McGonagall came over to me.

“Such a remarkable song! 'All you need is love.' A most appropriate sentiment. And such  _interesting_ lyrics. Albus Dumbledore would have would have quite liked it, I think.” That's when the butterflies in my stomach came in for a landing, although they'd been lining up for the runway since I had started to hear voices joining in on the chorus. Then she asked, “Who are the musicians?”

“The Beatles.”

“Beetles...are they animaguses? That loathsome Skeeter woman was--”

“No no,” Thinking back, I marvel at my temerity. Nobody interrupts Professor McGonagall, it's a law of nature. “--it's spelled b-e-a-t-l-e – it's a pun. They're Muggles, actually. But they are British.”

“Well, that's something.” She didn't seem bothered; in fact, she grinned.

Mr. and Mrs. Potter, and the newly-minted third Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, circulated around the gathering exchanging hugs, kisses, and handshakes with everyone. When they got to me, I made sure both brides were properly kissed, and then both grooms surprised me with big hugs, and Harry said “Thanks mate. Thanks for everything,” while trying to crush my ribs.

The music segued into Celestina Warbeck singing “ _Witchcraft_ ,” with the original lyrics ( _“...'cause it's witchcraft, lovely witchcraft, and though Muggles think it's strictly taboo, when you arouse the need in me, my heart says yes indeed in me...”_ ). Ron caught my eye, grinned, and rolled his eyes; he knew darn well that Molly had made me promise to include Warbeck in the music. I wondered for a moment how many of these folks knew that song was a hit for Muggles as well, with a few deft changes. It's amazing how many Wizarding songwriters have had hits in both worlds, simply by writing two sets of words. 

Before long, the music shifted to a dance beat. My folks love music, and my Dad is a real audiophile (an affliction that he says used to be called a “hi-fi nut”) who has a great sound system. I'm into modern music but have a very wide background, thanks to Dad and his huge library. When I was in my fourth year at IWU, another student and I had worked out the transfiguration spells needed to extract the music from Muggle recordings (plastic “records” and “tapes” and “compact discs”), so Dad's library was now mine as well and I drew on it a good deal. For this occasion I included some modern hits that us younger folk could get down with, and we did! – but I knew the crowd would be mostly older and didn't start with those.

Even if they hadn't heard it before, I knew that nobody can sit still when the Basie band rolls into “ _Jumpin' At The Woodside_ ,” and so it proved. I couldn't tell whether the grooms led their brides out onto the floor, or the other way around, but there they were, movin' and groovin' and makin' it up as they went along. There was a spontaneous round of applause, and then the floor was filled with dancers. I hesitated just long enough to double-check my song list, and then caught Jenny Killick's eye and led her out onto the floor. 

During the evening I had at least part of a dance with most of the ladies, I think. Aurelia Longbottom, Neville's Gran, didn't dance but watched with satisfaction. Arthur and Molly, Minerva McGonagall and Poppy Pomfrey only danced a few of the slower numbers, but Pomona Sprout and Filius Flitwick really got going, to their delight. The happy couples had plenty of good moves too, especially Ginny Potter, and Betty Blackstone was brilliant – she quickly wore out Alistair and went round the floor with most of the other men at one time or another. She had a wonderful way of making any partner look good.

Dancing turned out to be even more fun than anyone could have hoped – way more. I haven't discussed it with anyone so it's just my opinion, but I think everyone kind of felt this was their first real chance to celebrate – and not just an opportunity, but in a sense, even a part of their duty – since the heroic and tragic conclusion of the long struggle with Vo – I mean, with Tom Riddle. They were  _so_ ready to party, and you know, DJ-ing is a lot easier if you're a Wizard, because you can be anywhere in the room and do anything with a flick of your wand. The high spots of the evening started when I heard a classical guitar intro I knew well, and quickly pointed my wand at my larynx to amplify my voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the dance made world-famous by the legendary Argentinian Witch-and-Wizard dance team, Borges and Carrhena...here's ' _Purple Tango!'”_

Kingsley and Serena Shacklebolt suddenly looked at each other with wide grins. He stood, bowed, and offered his hand; she took it, rising gracefully; they moved out onto the floor and struck a pose, just as the guitarist made a gorgeous run into an augmented 7 th chord, and the orchestra came in. If you've never tangoed, you can't really know. It's the most passionate dance ever invented. Anyone can have fun with it, but to really tango properly is one of the great arts. Kingsley and Serena were artists.

Other couples started out with them – the Potters, the Proudfoots, the Grangers, and Neville and Luna – but before long they had joined the rest of us watching from the sidelines. The Shacklebolts were amazing. They obviously knew the music and stayed precisely in step with it. The Argentinian transfer student who had turned us on to the Tango in my final year at IWU (and given me that recording) said that Muggles could tango very well, even though they can't levitate. But Kingsley and Serena could. They had all the classic moves down, and flew each other all around the tent – I mean, marquee. When they finished, landing gazing into each others' eyes in a perfect pose on the very last note, applause and cheers erupted from all sides.

But that wasn't the end of it. A little later, Walter Granger came up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder, and asked if I had some more swing tunes. I said sure, and listed a few I had already included in the mix. When I mentioned Fletcher Henderson's “ _Christopher Columbus_ ,” he said “Perfect!” and headed out on the floor with Anne when I brought it up. That's a bouncy, infectious uptempo arrangement, and quite a few people began dancing. But part way though the song, the crowd on the floor began to thin out once again, as people voluntarily stepped to the sidelines to give more space for the dancing dentists. The Grangers were doing a dance I'd heard of but never seen, called the “Jitterbug.” It's wild. This was obviously something they'd practiced – a lot! – because they were perfectly in step with each other and the music. It's astonishingly acrobatic. They rolled across each others backs, slid between each others legs, spun out and back, and did lifts that almost looked like they  _could_ do levitation. They really  _swung_ !

It was hard to tear my eyes away from the dancers, but watching Hermione's face during this – and Ron's, and Harry's, and Ginny's, but especially Hermione's – was unforgettably hilarious. Everyone was surprised, but  _they_ were astonished, and  _she_ was just flabbergasted. (“Gobsmacked” was the word Ron used later.) When they were all laughing about it afterwards, I gathered that Hermione knew her parents belonged to a dancing club, but had never gone because it met after her bedtime when she was little...and of course Hogwarts had refocused all her interests. She had always thought it was probably stuffy and boring! But Walter and Anne were good enough to be in a movie, and they too ended right with the music, snapping into a casual pose with ankles crossed and her head on his shoulder. The applause and cheers were just as loud, with a happy froth of laughter. 

I don't know why they called it a “wedding breakfast,” because it wasn't bacon and eggs or those kipper things. A buffet supper had appeared on tables around the walls of the marquee when the dancing was in full swing. Well, not tables, more like great big old heavily carved cabinets with flat tops. I think everybody but me knew they were called “sideboards,” a term I'd never heard. Each sideboard was presided over by a house elf, wearing a new elf-garment (I don't know what they call them) of almost blinding white, embroidered over the heart (if that's where Elves keep their hearts) with the Hogwarts crest. An old house elf, rather portly, wearing an identical garment with a great big letter “D” on the front, wandered from one to the other. They were Hogwarts house elves, of course, and Minerva told me about it later in the evening.

“Well, of course the house elves heard about the wedding as soon as I started telling the staff,” she said, between bites of these little swedish-meatball things with a soft cheese filling and a zingy dipping sauce to die for. “And The Dobby, himself, appeared in my office, as soon as I got there after breakfast. He made it clear in no uncertain terms that the house elves all wanted to do something to help at Harry's wedding. It was extremely important to them. It was almost a demand, if you can imagine that! I think Hermione would have been pleased.” She smiled mischievously, and went on, “Well, of course I knew that Arthur and Molly were at their wits' ends, trying to make all the arrangements so quickly, and it was quite obvious that having Hogwarts' elves cater the evening would take a huge weight off their shoulders. So I sent him on to The Burrow, and he was back in an hour with a note from Molly accepting the arrangements.”

What a spread! Appetizers, main dishes, sides, desserts...I'd go bonkers trying to remember and describe everything. All superb and endless, it seemed. There was a table – er, sideboard – full of drinks, everything from pumpkin juice to firewhisky, including a remarkable selection of the finest Muggle libations.

The crowning glory, of course, was the wedding cake. It was a big one, an eight-tier ziggurat elaborately decorated in red and gold (all four newlyweds were Gryffindors, of course) with four miniature figures flying round the top on tiny brooms. I stuck my finger out to try and get a taste of the icing, and the little Harry-figure (it had dark hair sticking out in all directions and wore tiny glasses) instantly zoomed down, pointed a tiny wand, and zapped it with a spark. It felt like an electric shock, and I snatched my hand back.

“Ha-ha-ha! Got you too, eh?” I hadn't noticed Admiral Blackstone was watching. He thought it was a lot funnier than I did.

People danced, drifted out to the tables, sat and ate, drank and schmoozed, danced some more, and repeated the process until finally, later in the evening, most everyone was sitting and eating or talking, and the dance floor was almost deserted. It was after eleven when Harry stood up, holding a goblet, and tapped it with a fork to get everyone's attention.

“We're going to have to leave before too long, so I think it's about time we cut the cake, don't you?” There was a general shout of agreement and scattered applause.

Bill Weasley had brought a very nice Wizarding camera, and he and George and Charlie had been circulating around taking pictures. I know they got one of me, boogieing down with Molly, that I'm afraid to look at, and one of Hagrid dancing with Betty I'm dying to see. Now Bill stood next to me, camera at the ready, as the Dobby and a couple of his elves levitated the cake onto a table in the center of the dance floor. The newlyweds stepped forward and he addressed them in a surprisingly deep voice.

“If all four of you will please point your wands and say ' _sempris primo_ '...” He bowed and withdrew. They looked at each other, surprised, and did as he bid. The four tiny figures zoomed straight up to the top of the tent, then dove straight down into the top layer of the cake, which split in two and was escorted into little boxes. Then they zoomed up to the second layer and split it into four equal pieces which moved toward the newlyweds, and as we watched, Bill took pictures as the grooms fed their brides and the brides stuffed cake into their husbands' mouths. 

There's a picture just like that in my parents' wedding album (of course they weren't moving like in a Wizarding photograph), but I've discovered that's not a coincidence. I asked around. A picture of the bride and groom stuffing cake or something into each others' mouths appears in every wedding album since the beginning of photography, and the custom probably goes back to the beginning of time. I'm sure the old Greeks and Romans must have done it, but of course in those days only wealthy people could pay a sculptor to create a marble statue of the moment. They'll dig one up, one of these days, depend on it.

It was a great cake! Each layer was a different flavor. The second layer was pineapple (Ron said “bye-a-bull” with his mouth full and I think that's what he must have meant), then came vanilla, chocolate, carrot, pomegranate, pumpkin, and the bottom layer was an incredible fruitcake. Little golden plates with golden forks on them zoomed under each slice as it came off, and everyone picked their favorite flavors out of the air as they passed around the room. I couldn't decide on a favorite, and was working my way through my fourth or fifth piece, wondering how in the name of Merlin's pointy hat they managed to make a pomegranate-flavored cake, when the unmistakable sound of fork-on-goblet turned all eyes to Arthur Weasley, who was standing with Walter Granger, also holding a goblet.

“Friends,” Arthur said, smiling and looking all around the room, “our newlyweds are due to leave at midnight, and before they go, Walter and I would like to give you a toast.” He looked straight at Mrs. Harry Potter. “Ginny, my darling daughter, as you were growing up I never thought I'd be giving you away so soon, but Molly and I are ever so happy for you and Harry – the only regret we have is the one we were bound to have whenever you left the nest. We'll miss you.” He looked at Walter, who was looking at Hermione Weasley.

“Hermione, your mother and I feel exactly the same,” Walter said with a wistful smile. “Learning that your daughter is a Witch is quite an experience, but now that we've done it twice, we're getting used to it.” Everyone laughed, Hermione turned pink, and Ron hugged her. “And now that we've gotten to know your friends and your new family,” he went on, “we couldn't possibly be happier. Ron, I want to repeat in public what I said to you in private the other day: Anne and I are so  _very_ glad Hermione found you – welcome to our family.” Now it was Ron's turn to go pink, which always clashes dreadfully with his hair. By this time, full goblets of everyone's favorite drink had whisked through the air and found everyone's hands. I saw Headmistress McGonagall lean down and speak to The Dobby, and suddenly the house elves were all holding small goblets too. 

“Harry,” Arthur picked up the thread, “as you continue your own family, we are all so glad that you are now formally and permanently a member of ours...”

“...and ours as well,” put in Walter. “That makes three families,” he added with a gentle smile, looking at Harry, whose chin was trembling a little. “So here's our toast,” he said more briskly, as Arthur pulled a piece of parchment out of his robes, and they both read from it. Arthur begin:

“Here's to the newlyweds, who are our children, and our friends,”

“As you begin your lives together,” chimed in Walter, “we all know that you can accomplish anything you set out to do.”

“And we all want you to know that we'll all be there for you as the years go by,” said Arthur.

“So tonight we wish you long, happy, healthy lives together,” said Walter.

“And every good fortune, and every good thing you deserve, along the way,” finished Arthur. The two fathers looked at each other, then looked at the rest of us and spoke together.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the Brides and Grooms!”

There was a shout, and everybody drank deeply, and then someone started tapping on his goblet with a fork or a spoon, others picked it up, and soon we were all doing it – which made Harry and Ron turn pink again. But only for a moment, because they both kissed their wives lovingly and we all applauded. Ron and Hermione came up for air first.

“You know,” Ron said, looking around with both arms around his wife, “before we go, I've got to say how wonderful this has all been. Can't thank you enough for – for being here with us, and – for everything everyone's done...”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Hermione picked up the moment as Ron faltered. “Especially the house elves from Hogwarts, it was SO good of them to want to help, and haven't they done a fantastic job, though?”

That got an enthusiastic round applause from everyone, and we looked around and saw the elves stepping forward in a shy sort of way, bobbing their heads. I think they might have been a little embarrassed or something, because their faces turned orange. But they were smiling, and The Dobby bowed, very low.

“Yeah, what they said,” began Harry, in an identical pose, “can't thank you all enough. I – I've been trying to think of how to answer that lovely toast, and...well, I just don't know how to say it. We...you all are...”

Ginny came to his rescue. “I don't know how to say it either. But I know we'll never, ever forget this wonderful day. We love you all.”

This was getting on to pretty thin ice for British people, with so much deeply-felt emotion coming so close to the surface. I've learned that British folks feel just as intensely as anyone, but they seem to think it's usually best to treat emotions like ice cream – freeze them and hide them in your belly. It looked for a moment like things were going to get awkward, but Jamie and Crackers Conway saved the situation by marching up through the crowd. Jamie was levitating a large purple velvet pillow, on which were a number of objects, and Cracks was shepherding four medium-sized rollie cases, which moved around to stand behind the two couples.

“It's getting close to twelve, I think,” said Jamie, “and it's time to get ready, because these Portkeys will activate at midnight.”

I suddenly realized that there was no clock in the room, and had an idea. I took out my wand, pointed it at the corner where my computer was concealed, and tried to remember the timekeeping spells.

After a couple of moments a digital time display appeared in front of me, reading

**11:49:17**

Another flick of my wand started it counting, and I made it much larger, changed the colors to purple hours, golden minutes, and red seconds. Then I perched it up in the air where everyone could see it, and remembered to use a display-spell I'd invented back in school, which made it appear right-way-around no matter where you were standing.

“Nice one, Ryan!” Jamie gave me a thumbs-up, and turned to the center of the room. Positioning one of the tables in front of the happy couples, he set the purple pillow down. With his wand, he indicated four brightly-colored seashells. “These are your portkeys, and all you need to do is be holding one in your hand when the time comes. And be touching your luggage, too, of course.”

“We packed some other things,” said Ron. “for later. Where did they get to?”

“We've got 'em, Ron, don't you worry,” came Alistair's voice from the middle of the crowd. “They'll be waiting for you when you get back to the mainland.”

That was when the brides stepped forward and tossed their bouquets. I wasn't sure if this was a custom over there, and maybe it's a little different because they didn't turn their backs like the bride at the other wedding I'd been to. Hermione's bouquet went high over the crowd and almost hit Hagrid in the face – he bobbled it for a moment, stood there holding it, and went beet-red, as far as you could see among all that hair. That brought a big laugh. Ginny tossed hers at Jenny Killick, who was standing beside me, but she made a bad throw and it headed for my chest. Jenny and I reached for it at the same time, our arms got tangled, the bouquet went up in the air and came down on my head. That brought a bigger laugh, as Jenny snatched it.

“Now is the moment for you to enjoy some fresh, young coconut!” said Jamie, pointing at two large, bright green coconuts with his wand. “The Kahunas have enchanted these to help you travel – it's almost eight thousand miles, you know. If you don't mind, I'll release the preservative spell and open them. The Kahunas' invitation explained how, but I never did find time to translate it for you.”

Jamie pointed his wand with a little circular motion at the two coconuts, and the tops came off, leaving about a three inch hole. Cracks stepped forward with four golden drinking straws in his hand, giving one to each of the travelers. Each couple took a coconut, put their straws down in it, and drank.

“Ooohhh, this is soooo good!” Ginny was the only one to take her mouth off the straw. The others kept drinking and nodded.

As they drank, I heard Molly behind me, talking – she sounded annoyed. “Oh! Tchah! There's  _always_ something.”

“What is it, Molly?” Minerva McGonagall sounded concerned. They kept their voices low, but I was close enough to hear.

“We were going to toss rice as they left, and I've only just realized we completely forgot to get any. I was just going to summon it, but there's not a grain in the house.”

“Oh. Well – perhaps we can sort that for you. Just let me have a word with the elves.” I didn't turn around, but heard the Headmistress move away. Just then we all heard the sound you hear when anybody sucking on a straw gets down to the bottom of anything, and the four lifted their straws out of the coconuts. Cracks was right there to collect them and hand them each a long-handled golden spoon.

“Now get some of the meat – it's very soft at this stage, you can just scoop it out,” said Jamie, and they started to do just that.

“Mmmmm, so sweet,” said Ron, swallowing. “I never had coconut like this, it's usually hard and crunchy-like.”

“It's really good!” said Harry, appreciatively, as he dug for more.

“I'll bet we never see these young coconuts because it takes too long to get them here,” observed Hermione, with a spoonful poised by her mouth.

“That's right,” said Jamie, “exactly. Muggles bring them in, and they just don't have the preservative spells. People who live where coconuts grow, though, generally know exactly when to open them.” He grinned. “You've all had plenty, now, for the travel spell to work, but there's no harm in finishing it all.”

“That's good, because I was going to anyway!” Ron was waiting for Hermione to finish getting a spoonful, and dug down in. “Bet we can get these every day, where we're going.”

“Sweet!” agreed Harry. “I'd fancy one at brekka, what d'you think?” He looked at Ginny, who nodded but didn't answer because her mouth was full. When the coconuts were done, Jamie collected them and Cracks took the spoons. The time display read

**11** **:** **59** **:** **23**

At Jamie's behest, they each picked up one of the seashells, and then took a step back and put their other hands on their luggage.

“Listen you four,” Molly was now standing beside me, “don't you worry about us. We'll all be just fine now, and you know it. You pay attention to each other.”

“Oh, we'll send you a postcard or something, I'm sure,” said Ginny.

“That's all very well, but we really don't expect to hear from you until you're ready to start your tour in the States.” Arthur's voice was a little shaky.

“And don't spend a moment worrying about that, either,” I put in. “Whenever you show up, we'll have everything ready and fixed so you can decide where you'd like to go then.”

**11** **:** **59** **:** **42**

“Good-bye, everyone,” said Harry, and the other three echoed him. He added, “Thanks again for everything!” A chorus of goodbyes and good wishes filled the room until the display read:

**11** **:** **59** **:** **55**

Suddenly, a large burlap sack with the word “ **RICE** ” stenciled across it appeared right above the newlyweds. The astonishment on our faces (and the sudden cessation of good-byes) made them look up just as it split in half.

**12:00:00**

Harry, Ginny, Ron and Hermione ducked their heads and hunched their shoulders as a perfect Niagara Falls of rice came down on them, just as the seashells started to glow.

And then they were gone.


End file.
